


Faith

by Narnvaeril (AnnEllspethRaven), Zhie



Series: Freedom! [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Agriculture/Farming, Anxiety Attacks, Bunniverse, Card Games, Cooking, Demisexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Librarians, Libraries, Love Letters, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, Polyamory, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/Narnvaeril, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: A fruit few have heard of triggers multiple encounters among three who are still seeking to find their path to love--separately and together.  Cooking drama, library drama, relationship drama... but everyone loves a happy ending.





	1. Need Someone To Hold Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alt tag seems not to work for the images on AO3, so here is the alt text for the image with this chapter:  
> A copper pan containing quartered lemons in one half and medlars, a small brown fruit, in the other half of the pan.

Fingon stopped at the mailbox as was his custom on his way to the door, vaguely wondering why neither of his housemates had bothered to get to it first. With a shrug and a sigh, he carefully removed the letters within. Most of them were for him anyhow, he noticed as he shuffled through. The little door for the mailbox had become detached months ago, and with none of them particularly savvy carpenters, the solution had been to keep wedging it back in place and hoping no small creatures would find their way in. It was thankfully still rodent-free, and Fingon gave it a final tap with the side of his fist to keep the door secure before he continued on to the house.

Threading his way through to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. Erestor was standing at the stove, dutifully stirring a very large pan of… something. “How are you, cupcake?” Fingon asked diplomatically, given that the real question on his mind was ‘I thought we agreed this was a terrible idea?’

“Before you ask, this is not cooking, and Glorfindel is watching me. Or rather, he was until he had an urgent need for the privy. He will be back extremely soon,” Erestor said. He used the back of his arm to wipe sweat from his brow. “But the answer to your actual question is, I am well.”

“Clever, as always, my love,” Fingon smiled, stealing a kiss. Only afterward did he take a good look at the contents of the pan. “Alright, what in fuck are those?”

“Cat’s arses,” Erestor said, with a completely serious face.

“I see,” Fingon answered, who did not see at all. “I think I will just change into something more comfortable. Please excuse me.” Eres didn’t seem like he was under the influence of drugs, Fingon reasoned on his way out of the room and upstairs to find something comfortable to lounge in. Perhaps there was an explanation after all. By the time he returned, Glorfindel was indeed perched on a nearby stool, reading a book. Immediately the blond beauty took off his spectacles and placed them in his pocket before rising to greet Fingon.

“So what is this about cat’s arses?” Fingon finally asked after he and Glorfindel shared a moment and a kiss.

“I thought dog arses were better, but Erestor settled on cat. The ellon who had the tree said they were also just called asshole fruits.”

“See?” Erestor said, fishing one out and displaying the rather unfortunately shaped blossom end. “Assholes.”

“Surely they have at least one other name?” Fingon protested.

“Medlars,” Glorfindel smirked. “But to us assholes are a good thing, so…”

“Asshole fruit,” Fingon finished wearily, wondering what corner of the botanical world had risen up to provide this fresh hell for his awareness. It just had to be something corrupted by Morgoth. “Alright. It could have been worse. I guess it could have been penis fruit.”

“Oh no, those are peppers,” Erestor said. “I just acquired seeds for them, too. I cannot wait to have them in the summer garden. Pecker Peppers.”

“I think I am going to go below and find a bottle of wine,” Fingon said, wondering if he had made a mistake in deciding not to work late tonight. “Maybe two,” he amended as he trailed off on the way down.

“Are we being too awful?” Glorfindel whispered conspiratorially to Erestor.

“No,” came the soft reply. “It is good for him. He has often said he does not wish us to change for his sake. He needs to see the humor in these things. Besides, it gets worse.”

“True,” the blond agreed, reading a few more lines in his book, squinting his eyes while Erestor stirred.

When Fingon returned, he decided that he would have to try this from a different angle.  
“Alright. Let me start over. Tell me about these… these asshole medlars.”

“Well, they are a fruit. On a tree. A tree that looks a lot like an apple tree, but is of course a medlar tree. And it makes medlars, and the medlars have to be bletted before anything can be done with them. Which is a little tricky, but the ellon who owns the tree was able to show us exactly how they needed to be,” said Erestor.

“Bleated?” Fingon asked, unable to uncork the bottle quickly enough.

“No, bletted,” enunciated Erestor.

“What the fuck is ‘bletted?’ Bletted assholes. That sounds extremely painful, but I have a feeling it means something far different from what I believe it means. And supposedly, I run a library,” he muttered.

“Rotten,” Glorfindel said. “They are inedible until they are rotten, and then they are delicious.”

“Are you two just fucking with me?” Fingon asked in a voice that hinted of ire.

“Oh, I wish I was,” Erestor muttered under his breath, while Glorfindel arched his eyebrow.

“No,” Glorfindel broke in hurriedly as he set his book safely aside. “He is serious. All those things are true, however unusual. And they really are delicious. Here, try one.” Carefully he peeled the skin back off of a medlar that had not gone into Erestor’s pan, and offered it to Fingon. “There are seeds inside, though not too large. It tastes like spiced apples; I thought the flavor quite nice.”

Hesitantly Fingon sampled the creamy beige pulp, quite surprised at what he found. Glorfindel was correct, this incredibly unfortunately shaped thing was actually very tasty. “Alright, that is pretty good,” he admitted, now looking more closely at the stove. “And that pan is gorgeous. It looks expensive. Where did that come from?”

“Oh, it was a gift from Nerdanel, believe it or not,” Glorfindel said. “Somehow at Indis’ last party she overheard that I wanted to start making jams and preserves, and so she made me this. The copper is supposed to be the best there is for conducting the heat evenly. I plan on gifting her a lot of preserves, once I get halfway good at it. Trust me, I was as surprised as you are. This is its trial run.”

“Well, the pan is almost as pretty as you are,” Fingon remarked, admiring the gleaming beaten copper that was obviously very thick. “Do either of you want wine?” he inquired.

“None for me,” Erestor answered hurriedly, continuing to stir.

“A small glass, please,” Glorfindel decided.

Two glasses were poured in short order, with one handed to Glorfindel and the other remaining untouched with Fingon. “Asshole fruit, copper pan… do you want to tell me what exactly you are making, and how this came about?”

“Well, that was on account of the penis molds,” Erestor said. “We did not know if it would bother you, so we opted not to share that part.”

“Because… well, you know, penises,” Glorfindel added, patting Fingon on the hand. 

“What?” 

“Can I show him, Ress?” Glorfindel asked, and waited until he saw the nod. Opening a cabinet, he procured a wooden flat board carved with five deep reliefs of phalluses, complete with plump testicles. “We are cooking medlar cheese, and when it is done, it will go into this mold to make the right shape, and then be turned out to cool down further once it looks like a--”

“Cock and balls,” Fingon finished. “And do I even want to know where you procured this mold?”

“Sure,” Erestor said. “You remember that place where we bought Glorfindel the basket full of goodies?”

“Of course. How silly of me. And I suppose you two are going to incorporate these into some kind of encounter? I certainly hope they are not going to Aunt Nerdanel,” Fingon opined.

“The thought crossed my mind,” muttered Erestor again, whereupon Glorfindel threw a medlar at his head. “What? She likes penises, too. At least one in particular. Quite understandable, from what I recall of it. Besides, no one ends up pregnant that many times if they hate penises.”

“Of course we will not! For her we bought a very pretty one, in the shape of different flowers,” the blond answered, standing up now to examine the fruits simmering in the pan. “These are softened now,” he told Erestor as he put the mold away. “Now comes the hard part: pressing all that through a sieve. You did a very good job, simmering these. And now Fingon can have the kitchen back, for we will be moving all this to the table.”

“Do I want it back?” asked Fingon as he set down the glass of wine poured for himself and picked up the bottle. He walked back to the area where the greater portion of working was done and surveyed the stove and the counter beside it. Most everything appeared contained within the pan. Despite this fact, Fingon sipped the wine straight from the bottle and waited until the operation moved to the table. Once he was satisfied that neither of his companions were going to meander back into what was generally considered his domain, Fingon set down the bottle of wine and rolled up his sleeves.

“Oh, let me help,” offered Erestor when he watched Fingon pump water into the cleaning bucket. 

“No, thank you,” Fingon said quickly as he added a cleanser that produced suds in the bucket. He pulled a waist apron from one of the drawers and tied it on. “I can see to this myself,” he said as he retrieved a rag from the same drawer and dunked it into the bucket. He swirled it around, wrung it out, and began to scrub everything that was cool enough to manage.

“But you worked all day,” recognized Glorfindel, who moved his book further out of the way so that it would not be ruined by the current task. “We can help -- actually, we can just do that once we finish this.”

“I prefer to do this myself. Both of you have been touching meddling assholes all day, and I just need to know that everything is… unassholified,” Fingon decided.

“They are not real assholes,” Glorfindel said with a bit of a snicker.

Fingon paused, but it was only to take another swig from the bottle. “I know. However, now I am just imagining a clowder of cats, all scraping their bums across the floor and the counter and the stove, assholes contaminating everything.” He retrieved the rag and his scrubbing began anew. “Cat assholes. Cat assholes everywhere.”

“It could have been dogs,” Erestor noted, cringing a little at the glare he received from Fingon. “I mean they are called a lot of things and...alright, never mind. Sorry. But these are perfectly sanitary parboiled assholes.” A grunt escaped him, as he pressed the first one through the sieve.

“Here,” Glorfindel explained. “See how the skin loosened from the boiling? This will be easier if you sort of grab the asshole and squeeze. Then you will only have the fruit and seeds to contend with, not the skin. And then you can just throw this puckered part into a separate bowl. Take four or five out at a time with the slotted spoon, then they will be cool enough for you to handle easily.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Erestor said, seeing that this indeed was a better method. “Thank you.” He pressed the pulp of three more fruits through in this manner, and started giggling. “Fin, are you thinking what I am thinking?”

Glorfindel had not been, but he was now. “Oh. Oh, it does! Just look at that...” 

Plop, went the brownish pulp into the basin underneath… and two grown ellyn dissolved into laughter.

Very slowly, Fingon’s scrubbing stopped and he turned his head. Three more plops, each followed by guffaws and giggles, filled the otherwise silent kitchen. Fingon straightened up and took the bottle in one hand, rag in the other, and continued his work.

Fingon scrubbed everything. He polished, he mopped, and he made his way through most of the bottle before he was satisfied with the condition of the work space. He came to the table now, wine in one hand, handle of the mop in the other. While leaning his elbow on the mop to help prop himself up, he took another swig from the bottle. “I almost regret even asking, but now what are you doing?”

“We are straining the medlar pulp from the seeds,” Glorfindel explained. “Then when we have all the pulp, we will return it to the pan and cook it for a little longer to reduce it more. It is supposed to gain a particular consistency when it has lost enough water. Then it goes into the molds or into a block shape to cool. Well, that and we are making poop jokes, but I suspect you already knew that part,” he grinned sheepishly.

“I have brothers. And a son. Sons, sort of, depending on how that gets defined. And a father. I know all about poop jokes,” Fingon assured them, though his serious monotone caused a few snickers. “Most of them are pretty shitty.”

Erestor was quicker that Glorfindel to catch the deadpan humor, and began sniggering. But when the golden one finally registered Fingon’s words, his reaction was far, far better. His lips pursed into a strained pucker, while his cheeks bulged out much like if he were a squirrel with far too many nuts packed in. He tried, and tried, but then could no longer contain himself. All the laughter sort of sprayed out, as he howled with delighted giggles, stamping his feet back and forth in his excess of mirth. Tears ran down his cheeks, and in the end all he could do was point and say, “Káno said ‘shitty’!” and giggle some more. This in turn set Erestor off all over again. The medlars were temporarily abandoned.

Fingon looked from one to the other and back again before he emptied the bottle. “As for myself, I prefer to have a more refined sense of humor, laughing not at ‘poop’ jokes, but only expressing and expelling my mirth for the finest of excrement jokes Valinor has to offer.” His voice was still even-toned, and not even a hint of a smile was on his lips.

“Fin, it sounds to me as though he is denigrating our right to appreciate the perspective of twenty-year-old elflings. He has just impugned the consistency of our excrement. Jokes. Jokes about excrement, complete with onomatopoeia. I think I might possibly be taking exception to this,” Erestor said, unreadably.

Glorfindel blinked. “His shit is better than our shit? Hm. I might possibly have to theoretically agree with you. Probably.”

“I can see only one just outcome.” 

“And that would be?” Glorfindel inquired.

“Well remember that time with Elladan, when we…” Erestor reminded him.

“Ohhh. Oh, yes, THAT time. That was rather hard to forget.”

“I would say so. But I am prepared to defend our honor, Fin. Poop matters.”

“That sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.” Fingon was no fool, and spent the conversation backing his way to the sink to deposit the empty bottle. Two against one was not very good odds when one was the known lightweight of the household. He tilted the mop against the wall, stepping carefully as he went. “Just a reminder - I did just mop. Safety first.” He ducked around the doorway and into a part of the cottage they rarely used. It was the room which had once been used for deliveries, and to butcher animals. There were no exits to other rooms from here, Fingon belatedly remembered as he backed into the enormous wooden slab that was raised in the middle of the room. Some time ago they had shoved some of the old equipment across the room against doors they never used which led to the other part of the first floor, and Fingon now regretted this decision. There was a wide door which would lead outside, but the stone ramp that came up to the door on the outside was little more than rubble after years of neglect. Jumping was possible, but the ride home had been a muddy one on account of standing water from two days of rain prior, and it was doubtful that the sun had done much on their property, either. “Crap,” he muttered as he now heard movement from the kitchen.

“You did not really think you would escape the mighty, uhm… can I be the mighty something or other, Ress?” Glorfindel asked.

The dark one rolled his eyes. “Well there was the thing I am not supposed to mention that you killed that one time,” he pointed out.

“But we are not mentioning it,” Glorfindel waved his hand impatiently. “I want something else.”

“Right now?” Erestor wheedled. “I think we have a Findekáno to catch.”

“True. And we shall be ever so nice to him,” Glorfindel smirked, his eyes sparkling with fun as they entered the room. “Be a good king and come over here.”

The banter gave Fingon time to observe his surroundings, and what he noticed above were the chains and hooks anchored in the ceiling and wrapped around the rafters. The fate of many a poor mammal was his gain as he heard what seemed like ominous words. “Pass. Hard pass,” he added, and this time, he could not help but grin at his base humor and apparent good fortune. He leaped up, grabbed two hooks as he would the gymnastic rings, and lifted himself well off the ground, legs out in front to keep the others from simply pulling him down. Now he just needed to think quickly, before his companions came up with a plan, or his body tired of the difficult position he was holding.

“Oh, no, I do not think so,” Erestor said, using Glorfindel’s back as a springboard to hop up much higher than he should have been able to, and grab onto Fingon’s legs, pinning them together. That maneuver had been suspiciously adept. “Come on down now-- not even you can hang on with an Erestor-sized weight on you. Though, you get points for strategy.”

Glorfindel said nothing but continued laughing. He was enjoying himself thoroughly.

Fingon grunted with the added weight. “How the fuck did you--” But his question was lost, for there was a great creaking above, and he very quickly realized that the wooden beam, while once sturdy enough to lift several unlucky hogs by their hind legs off the floor so that their blood could drain out before being butchered, was now not so stable. With much personal regret, he carefully yet swiftly lowered his legs so that Erestor was safely on the ground, then hopped down as well. 

Fingon gave consideration to the back door, but thought better of it as he heard the rumble of distant thunder. In a most regal manner, he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head. “Fine. I submit to you and your deviousness. But know this - if you make me eat any of your ridiculous penis shaped concoctions, forgiveness will be long in coming.” He winced and shook his head at his own unfortunate choice of words.

Both Erestor and Glorfindel burst into even more laughter and wrapped their arms around Fingon from each side, making sure he could not escape them, and proceeded to snuggle and nuzzle him. “Do you not know that all the fun is in the chase?” Glorfindel asked, kissing him softly and repeatedly on his cheeks, while rubbing skilled fingers on the muscles at the back of his neck. “And we are very good at chasing. Wait. That sounded bad.” He burst into laughter again, echoed by Erestor.

“So you want me to be prey. So I should try to skittle around even after the odds are absolutely zero that I could escape you? Because, honestly, the chase sort of ended with whatever the fuck sort of maneuver that was, and Eres, I swear to Eru, if your knees hurt in the morning, I will be slightly less sympathetic than normal.” Fingon simply straightened his back, chin up, and for full effect, he moved his arms behind his back and crossed his wrists. “I only wish to remind you that I have an early meeting tomorrow morning,” he said quietly.

“Oh sweetheart,” Glorfindel whispered, releasing him at once now that he perceived that Fingon was not enjoying this at all. “I am sorry. I was being playful, as we often used to be back when we could be silly and act like juvenile delinquents for the fun of it. I did not mean to upset you.” He looked down. “I am really sorry.”

Erestor said nothing, but mirrored Glorfindel’s movements, wide-eyed and clearly bewildered. “Sorry,” he echoed, though he was not entirely understanding what they had done wrong.

But Fingon did not move, except for his eyes, and his chest to breathe. “Sure, and another trick, and once I stand up, the two of you pounce.” He rolled his eyes and then closed them. “Just get it out of your system, alright?”

Glorfindel looked at Erestor, sharing his thought, to see his mate nod. Each of them took Fingon firmly by the hand, and Glorfindel led them out of the room. He might be shorter than both of them, but still possessed plenty of strength. Fingon had little choice but to be bodily pulled along through the house until they came to their couch, where he was just as insistently pulled down to sit between them. Glorfindel now scooted off, to kneel on the floor in front of Fingon. “I truly am sorry. Whatever this is, whatever I did, please. It would mean a lot to me if you would talk about it, if you think you can. If you would rather be left alone we will do that too. I love and respect you, and would never trample over you as you seem to be expecting. Whatever it takes for you to believe that, you only have to say it.” His hand rested lightly on one of Fingon’s knees. Erestor laid one hand tentatively on Fingon’s shoulder, but kept his silence. The rumbling of the storm grew, and the wind outside whistled through the trees.

“Uhm…” Fingon took a moment to clear his throat and regain his bearings, for a minute earlier he had been preparing himself for a far different outcome. “When you said chase,” he said, gaze flitting to Erestor for a moment, “I mean… maybe you meant something different than what I thought. I was also not expecting someone to grab my legs - seriously, Eres, that was probably the weirdest thing that happened today, and today I saw assberries and a mold for making penis cheeses.” He rubbed his nose. “I thought you… wanted something from me,” he mumbled. “I thought you expected… well, something sexual,” he added, almost fighting to say the words.

“I am…” His golden head drooped. “I already said I am sorry,” Glorfindel repeated, though he was talking half to himself.

“What did we do wrong? What made you think that? So that we do not do it again,” Erestor said miserably, now feeling genuinely awful. “I would never… I thought you understood that.”

Fingon groaned and rubbed his head. “I come in, there is talk of eating asshole fruit and making penis food, and then whatever cryptic stuff the two of you did with Elladan -- not that I am judging,” he said quickly. “Of Elrond’s children, Elladan is definitely the one with the finest figure, so, whatever. I mean, clearly whatever you did with him was not a binding thing, so I think I can handle it… and… well, shit, I am starting to think I read that wrong, too. Well, now I feel like the asshole,” he said. “What the fuck were you trying to do out there?”

“It was when Elladan and Elrohir were elflings,” Erestor explained quietly, in a tone of voice that betrayed how much he was fighting to obfuscate his own state of upset. “They… well, they could be hellions, at times, and as their oft-times guardians and teachers, we had to work with the ‘old age and treachery beats youth and skill’ adage quite a lot. Me using Fin as a stepping stool was just one of the things we practiced between us to gain the upper hand over them when they were so convinced they had escaped our reach, our discipline or… whatever, really. When we would finally catch them we would tickle them. Maybe blow raspberries on their tummies, too, until they were suitably chastened,” he smiled, unable to help himself at the fond but ridiculous memories. “I think we had both forgotten how much fun it was to chase after them, though of course we never told them that; we always acted suitably irate and grumpy about such antics. That was all. But you had no way to know that, and I am sorry. Sorry for the discomfort we obviously made you feel. I never wanted anything like that to happen.”

Glorfindel worried now, for he knew that tone of voice. “No, Ress. It was an accident, a mistake. That is why we are talking about it; so we can learn.”

“I ruin everything,” Erestor whispered, not really wanting to hear anything sensible.

“Shit,” muttered Glorfindel, now leaning his forehead against Fingon’s knee.

Fingon took a deep breath, his elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. “We all have different life experiences, and different personal cultures, and I think there are a lot of things, historically, that I just missed.” He stayed quiet for several minutes, and it seemed none of them knew quite what to say next, but it seemed only right, following Erestor’s explanation of intention, that Fingon explain himself as well. “Maedhros and I used to go out ‘hunting’ in the woods a lot, though we rarely actually caught anything, because it was just an excuse to get out into the woods. When we were in some secluded place, he would make me take off my clothing, and he would give me the count of ten as a head start, and give chase.” Fingon licked his lips. “He got some sort of thrill from it. He liked the sport of it, and he liked the catching after a good chase. So I learned how to be very good at avoiding capture, because the longer it took, the less…” Here he squirmed a bit. “I never knew what to expect when he caught me. He was… creative. So. I wanted to wear him out without pissing him off. And in times when it was obvious he was going to win, if I continued to find ways to evade, it was as if that gave him a sudden boost of energy, and… that only had to happen once before I learned not to try that again.” 

Unsure of where to look, Fingon took to studying the pattern on Glorfindel’s sleeve. The rain began to tap against the windows. “I know logically that neither of you would ever hurt me. I know that we all love each other very, very much. I cannot come up with ‘you did this to make it happen’; it was more a feeling than actions or words, and I know that is vague, and I am sorry for that, and wish I could express something more conclusive,” Fingon apologized. “I just went on instinct, and instinct told me once I made it to the ground again that I had to stop struggling and submit because… it would all… be over sooner that way.” He shook his head at himself. “Like I said, I feel like the asshole now. The two of you were just being playful, and I… clearly misinterpreted. I am the one who ruined the evening,” he decided.

“It does not have to be ruined if we all agree to not buy into needing to blame something or someone,” Glorfindel asserted stubbornly, not willing to give up. “I learned something. Honestly, this was not avoidable, but I will understand in the future why games of this kind were rendered unappealing for you,” he said, extending a hand to Fingon. 

“I would not say ‘rendered unappealing’,” said Fingon as he took hold of Glorfindel’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I think we just need to know that sometimes I am going to have a different perception -- I was raised much differently, I lived in other places, and my social interactions are extremely limited for all I did in my life,” admitted Fingon. “I have great spans of time where everyone I saw socially was someone in my immediate family, so I am… limited.”

“Couldn’t we just snuggle and decide not to let it be an...an….a thing?”

“A thing?” Erestor asked, disbelieving.

“Not all of us are so eloquent as you,” Glorfindel reminded him, wishing that for once the right word would come to mind.

“Did you mean, a problem? An insurmountable difficulty? An incident? A strain on our relationship? A…”

Glorfindel looked up at Fingon, smiling crookedly. “Help?”

A question had been on his mind for a few minutes, and Fingon asked it now to interrupt Erestor’s list. “I need an explanation for something else. The part about the raspberries - how did you manage to blow them across their stomachs without either of them moving or squirming about as children do? Or was that the draw of it - some sort of game, a race or something, that they would want to be prone and unmoving in order to win or something like that?”

“Well…” Glorfindel appeared somewhat confused. “They were ticklish, both of them. And there were two of us usually, against one of them. Of course they squirmed, and they did not entirely like it, which was something of the point. We were stronger, and could hold them down. If they wanted us to stop, they had to promise better behavior and follow through with that. I do not think they wanted to be caught. It was not always that, either. It might be having to clean Erestor’s library, or muck out stalls… we did not have only one means of discipline. Is… that what you are asking? Or are you wanting me to do that to you? I am a little… I am not sure I understand.”

“I am certainly still confused,” replied Fingon. “So, one of you held a child down, and the other had the raspberries -- which, did you just keep them around for that purpose? Raspberries have a short life once picked, unless the point was to use the squishy ones, but blowing those seems impossible and messy.” Fingon frowned. “Perhaps just walk me through the set-up and it might make more sense to me.”

Erestor tried to force down a smile, but Fingon could not see this. 

“Uhm, I think I see the problem,” Glorfindel said. “If you will allow me to touch you, I can demonstrate? I would be putting my lips against your abdomen. No actual fruit involved.”

“If there is no fruit, where do the raspberries come from?” Fingon shrugged. “I mean… this sounds weird, but I trust you. I truly do trust both of you,” he said a little louder. “Whatever I was expecting out there when I stopped trying to evade both of you, I still trusted you.”

Glorfindel carefully lifted Fingon’s tunic, moving slowly to give him time to change his mind or stop him. Leaning forward, he positioned himself and blew a perfectly healthy raspberry against Fingon’s belly. And then dropped the fabric and resumed his position, smiling.

“That is ‘blowing a raspberry,’ Erestor expounded, settling into his scholarly glory. “You see, in the Second Age, there was an outpost of… shall we say poorly educated humans in Eregion, south of Imladris but well north of Hollin. They had many fascinating idioms unique to their settlement, which I recorded in the volume entitled ‘The--”

“Ress,” Glorfindel interrupted, with a pained look on his face. “Perhaps a briefer summary?”

A slight hmpfing noise escaped Erestor, but he acceded to what was asked. “They created the euphemism ‘raspberry tart’ for ‘fart’. Do not ask me why; that part is lost to time. But because the noise produced resembles the sound of flatus, it came to be called ‘blowing a raspberry.’ There. Now you know.” He settled back, feeling self-satisfied, even if he had not been allowed to elaborate on his book.

Fingon looked quite amused. “That was a zirber,” he enlightened them, “though the etymology is nowhere near as fascinating. It is just an interpretation of the noises made in doing that as recorded in Khuzdul. What is more interesting is that growing up, there was no word in Quenya for it. I once heard ‘kissy belly fart’ used, but nothing that caught on, however, both Finrod and Turgon tried to do that to me on several occasions, and even had a bet going, so I think both of them owe you money now…”

“Why?” Erestor asked. “Money for what? And you have to spell that for me,” he added.

Fingon slowly enunciated each letter of the Dwarven word for Erestor before turning to the story of the bet. “Finrod was always good at sneaking up on people, and Turgon is notoriously good at hiding,” Fingon said, though his partners hardly needing reminding of this. “Finrod declared one day that he would be able to zirber me before Turgon did, though, honestly, the whole thing is very silly, and Turgon swore he would be the first, and I think they bet each other five silver pieces - it was a really stupid, really drunk night. They both unsuccessfully tried a few times that day and the next, and then it would just come up at random here and there. That was a big part of why I never learned how to swim back then, and always kept my shirt on,” Fingon said. “I should think it only fair now that Glorfindel collect the wagers.”

“But I did it with your permission,” Glorfindel protested. “I certainly did not force it on you. Though, um, had this not gone sideways that is more or less what we would have done to you. But there would have been kisses and cuddles and snuggles liberally interspersed, because it is you.” He shrugged. “Zirber. I will have to remember that.”

“So the sole purpose of catching me was to make farting noises with your mouths against my abdomen.” Fingon looked to Erestor beside him, and then down to Glorfindel. “You realize you are both dorks and I love you for it.”

“I take exception to that,” Erestor sniffed. “I am not a dork; I am a nerd. There is a difference. Besides, he was the one who would have blown the raspberries. I just planned to hold you down and put little kisses on your cheeks. Maybe a few other places too, if you had shown any signs of enjoyment.”

Fingon kissed the tip of Erestor’s nose and petted Glorfindel’s hair. “I am sorry I ruined that. I just… I need a more of a clue that when you are both talking about phallic… cheese wheels or whatever the fuck you are making, that it is completely removed from whatever playing you want to do with me. I had a very long-term relationship with someone who clearly had his own thoughts on how the world works, and I was naive then, and I daresay, I still am now.”

“But I thought we had,” whined Erestor. “We had moved on from phallic fruit molds to poop. There was a clear demarcation.”

Fingon cringed. “So… no, I gave absolutely no merit to the poop jokes. I just thought that was a brief intermission, since the molds you showed me went with the… ass fruit, assberries, whatever those are… that you were preparing, and you were still doing things with those. I just… I thought it was some sort of… as I said, I misinterpreted, possibly because I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine on my own, and I feel really bad about that. The misinterpretation, that is. The wine, I will feel bad about in the morning. But I never meant to accuse either of you of anything. I am really, really sorry.”

“And it was such an easy hop from poop to farts,” Glorfindel lamented. “Oh, well. I put the mold away, and I suppose we should finish our project.” He declined to mention that prior to their misunderstanding, he had half a mind to see if Erestor was interested in more than just talking about assholes, at least after dinner. Probably that was best left unsaid, at this point in time. “Back to the medlars.” With a kiss to Fingon’s cheek, he stood up. “And thank you for talking to us.”

Erestor waited for Fingon to stand and slipped his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

Fingon returned the embrace and nodded to them both. “I think I am going to head up and spend a little time in the library while you work on your project. No need to wait up for me,” he added on his way out of the room to the stairway. He took the steps two at a time to escape to the upper level.

“That felt like he is running away from us,” Erestor said. 

“Same here,” Glorfindel noted, looking down. “He can have a short time to think a little. We boiled the fruit, it will not spoil overnight. Come help me cover it all up. I will deal with it myself tomorrow if I have to. He is more important than a cooking project.”

“Thank you,” Erestor hugged Glorfindel, both for his compassion and that he did not have to wonder if their love for Fingon was truly shared. Quickly enough, their workstation on the table was draped with a cloth to keep off any insects, and abandoned for the night. Extinguishing the last lights, they moved upstairs together.

What bits of conversation Fingon heard once upstairs made him realize the library would be no sanctuary for him. He did what any conflicted ex-hermit in his position would think to do -- he gathered up the keys to the library, locked it so as to make it appear he was there and preferred not to be bothered, and found another room on the uppermost level that would provide him a place, temporary though it may be, for him to curl up and try to sleep before he was found and conversations on the topics of feelings and past history were brought up again. This was only after he purged most of the wine; drinking so much on an empty stomach was not one of his better decisions that evening. Come to think of it, all of his decisions seemed bad tonight, starting with the attempt to make it home early to spend more time with Erestor and Glorfindel. He sighed as he burrowed into a hidden nest he created in the corner of a room yet unused and pulled another old blanket he had found over himself. At least he was not prone to snoring, he thought, as he closed his eyes.

The first knocks on the door of the library were tentative once Glorfindel stood before it, Erestor behind him with a single lit candle. “Káno? Are you still in there?” Glorfindel pressed his ear to the door and listened. Fingon could be extremely quiet, so Glorfindel knocked again, a little louder this time. “Fingon, it seems a shame to choose culinary pursuits over cuddling and snuggling.” Glorfindel tried the knob this time and found the door locked. His shoulders drooped and he gave Erestor a hopeless look. “I guess he just wants to be left alone,” he whispered, rejected.

Erestor crouched down and peeked through the keyhole. “No one is in there.” He tried the knob again and sighed. “I doubt he is in the bedroom, either.”

“He left?” asked Glorfindel in a panic.

“No… no, we would have heard him or seen him,” assured Erestor as he stood up and placed a hand upon Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Sometimes he does this - he just needs some time alone. He occasionally has episodes of anxiety. They usually happen when he is out in crowds of people for too long,” Erestor explained. “He can handle it to a certain point, and then he either needs to remove himself from the situation completely or he ends up having a panic attack.”

“Why did I never notice these?” questioned Glorfindel, but a moment later, he answered his own question. “Because when we were all here before, I was so focused on Faelion, I was ignoring everyone else.”

Erestor kissed Glorfindel on the cheek. “Do not dwell on that, darling.” He walked to the bedroom to check for Fingon, just in case, but found the bed still made from that morning. “He considers it a weakness. He did not readily confide in me; it was actually his mother who took me aside one day to explain. Even then, I did not fully understand until we came back from a very long day at the market not all that many months before you arrived. We both forgot that we had invited guests over, and he somehow made it through most of the ordeal, then excused himself in the middle of dessert and never returned to the party. I was furious,” recalled Erestor. Glorfindel sat down on the bed while he listened to the rest of Erestor’s tale. “After our guests left, I sought him out - he was only up in the library - and demanded an explanation. He answered me in these jumbles of words,” said Erestor, who paced now, still holding the candle. “I got a little angry, and I told him so, and in the midst of me pointing out how what he did was rude, and made me uncomfortable, he suddenly shouted that he was sorry he was not perfect, and sorry that I was seemingly destined to be with such an idiot, and pretty soon he was sitting under a desk crying and hyperventilating and saying he ruined everything - and I mean, everything. He blamed himself for everything from the awkward evening less than an hour prior all the way back to when he was five or six, and I visited his family, and I contracted some childhood illness from him even though I was an adult because I had not been exposed to it before.”

As Glorfindel listened, his frown deepened. “That is a lot of guilt for one person. He did not bring up the kinslaying, did he?”

“Oh, and how. You would have thought with the way he talked that he had planned all three and carried out every murder. I tried to sit with him that night, but he just… he backed away, further under the desk, like an injured wild animal. So I sat nearby in a chair and let him cry it out, and when he was reduced to hiccups and rocking back and forth, I tried again, and I held him, possibly because he was just so drained from the emotional output. I comforted him, washed his face, got him into bed, and held him there and told him how much he was loved and reminded him that he saved me and I was not going to leave him because of events that happened ages ago, or even what I felt was just improper etiquette from that evening.”

“Did you ever speak with him about it?” asked Glorfindel.

Erestor slowly nodded. “Not right away. The next day, it was as if it had never happened. We went to work, came home, did chores, ate, slept -- it was as if everything was normal. A few days later, we had to go out to the market on a day off, and before we did, I sat down with him on the couch and I asked him if he could please tell me what I could have done differently the night of the party. At first, I thought he was going to walk off and hide somewhere again -- he was shaking and avoided looking at me, and he would only whisper, as if he was afraid someone else would be listening and judge him.”

“Go on,” coaxed Glorfindel when Erestor stopped walking and stood to look out the window.

“Do you remember that Hobbit that passed through Rivendell, right around the same time Bilbo and all of those Dwarves came through?” asked Erestor. “The one who said a lot of rude things about Elrond and I?”

“Was she the one who claimed she could turn me straight?” asked Glorfindel.

“Yes, that one,” confirmed Erestor.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. “Most unfortunately, I do remember her.”

“People like her -- they take no responsibility for their own actions. They just do whatever they want and blame someone else. Fingon is exactly the opposite. He takes all the responsibility, for everything. Every additional incident is just another burden he places on his own shoulders. He did not blame me at all for forgetting we had a dinner party planned -- and they were my friends, not his.” Erestor came to the bed to sit down beside Glorfindel. “From listening to everything he said, and prodding him gently with a few questions of my own, I came to the realization that he is the product of a combination of both planned and accidental life experiences during formative years, as well as early in his life that created the situation he is in now -- this cycle of constantly self-blaming for everything that goes awry.” Erestor leaned against Glorfindel, who put an arm around him. “He is the first-born of a group of siblings, most of whom are born close together, so there are times he is told he is in charge, therefore, the one responsible if Turgon hides in a tree or Aredhel runs off and scrapes a knee. He comes from an affluent, royal family, and he competes in a highly regarded, ridiculously competitive sport, where some judges will mark him unfairly simply based on who he is -- which means he has to be that much better than his peers, who think he gets everything handed to him because of who he is. That means coaches are harder on him, and he literally needs to learn to be perfect in a sport where everyone is disqualified based on age just as they are reaching an awkward time for them -- those gymnasts dedicate the very peak of their physical lives to that sport, and at a time when all of their peers are typically new parents, few of these ex-athletes have married, let alone had time for romantic relationships. Abuse is rampant; they allow coaches to do things we would find abhorrent because they seek out what they believe to be affection, and if they do have a partner or spouse, it at times occurs because it was the very first person they encountered who offered some sort of physical comfort. And leaving is difficult, because they believe they will never have another chance to find someone else.”

“I get the part that is about Maedhros,” said Glorfindel. “I feel like I am missing something else you are alluding to.”

Erestor nuzzled against Glorfindel’s shoulder while he chose his words carefully. “I think you have a right to know this, and I will speak with Káno at a later date and tell him that I shared this with you. He was abused by one of his mentors early in his competitive athletic career.”

“How?” demanded Glorfindel. “Did they beat him, or yell at him, or--”

“He was molested and raped by a coach. And he never told his parents or any other adults when it happened,” Erestor said clearly so that there was no mistake in his meaning.

“Shit,” responded Glorfindel. He ran a hand through his hair, and then held Erestor tighter. “And… and he never told any adults, so from that, I take it he was young.”

Erestor nodded slowly. “And all of that happened here. Then there was the kinslaying.”

But Glorfindel was still stuck on the recently learned information. “When it happened to Celebrían, she came here to heal, and it was those monsters who did it, and while that does not make it any more acceptable, it was a danger we knew existed. What can a boy, who is already here, who is betrayed by someone he trusts, possibly do?”

“Blame himself for it, because that is what he does,” said Erestor sadly. “After the kinslaying,” he continued, “there is the Helcaraxë. Everyone who did not make it on a ship crosses it -- even though they had the opportunity to go back and repent. Everyone had that opportunity, except the kinslayers. And technically, just the ones who killed the Teleri, because historically, we know that most of Fingolfin’s host who were involved on the beach actually killed other Noldor whom they saw attacking the Teleri.”

“So… how many people are we talking about?” asked Glorfindel. Erestor held up one finger. “Fingon was the only Telerin kinslayer who crossed the Helcaraxë?”

“He was the only one who participated in the atrocities the Fëanorians started,” said Erestor. “He was the only person in that group who did not manage to get onto one of the ships.”

“So he blames himself for everyone crossing the grinding ice, and he most likely blames himself for the ships being burned, too,” assumed Glorfindel.

“There were a lot Noldor waiting on that beach who felt that the ships being burned was actually an act of the Valar, because at the time, no one could say for sure why the ships were burning,” pointed out Erestor. “Many of the Noldor turned away from the migration, then, because they felt they were being given a second chance. Another messenger was sent -- not me, that time -- and those who remained were given the choice once more, come back and apologize, or get thee gone. With the exception of Fingon. He was told in no uncertain terms, called out just as I was made to single out Fëanor, and told he was no longer welcome for the blood he spilled.”

“Fingon goes on to realize he cannot swim the distance -- he could not swim at all at that point -- and he chooses the Helcaraxë, to either make it to the other side or freeze to death trying,” Glorfindel pieced together. “Someone follows him, someone has to start the others--”

“He was famous, even then,” Erestor reminded Glorfindel. “There is a giant statue of him in Tirion, and several other smaller ones and busts and portraits in museums and public halls. To this day, no one has managed to best his record. Others have won more trophies and medals, but he is the only man who ever earned the overall champion title three times, and he is one of only four, I think, who have managed to win it two years in a row. In the case of the two consecutive years, he was injured in between, and dropped from his gym, and he competed as an independently sponsored athlete, and he is the only person who holds that distinction, of winning the champion title without being affiliated with a gym.”

“So he had fans. And they followed him,” said Glorfindel.

“He had his biggest fan with him the whole time. His father was not going to let him make that journey alone. Most of the family followed suit,” said Erestor. “You can figure out the rest.”

“The trek is long, and grueling. Many people die, including his sister-in-law -- he blames himself for that. He feels he is responsible when they get to the other side and his youngest brother is killed. Fingon learns what happened to Maedhros, and he feels he should have found a way onto one of the ships, or arrived sooner, or something. He takes it upon himself to find Maedhros.”

“And then, he eventually becomes king -- after, of course, he blames himself for a number of other things, including his father’s death. So a successful campaign against Morgoth will be his way of putting so many of these demons to rest,” said Erestor. “His time spent as leader of all of the Noldor in Middle-earth is short, but in those years, the responsibilities are greater -- now, it is not only what directly affects him that he takes blame for, it is every woe and hardship of the people in his kingdom. Everything rests on his shoulders, because he lets it. More than once, he has asked the question, ‘who would ever want to be king?’, and it is genuine disbelief that anyone would want such responsibility.”

“But every other king I have known -- and admittedly, I probably have a longer list than most,” Glorfindel admitted, “knows where the line is between being king and being a person.”

“Fingon absorbs it into his identity, and he does not know when to say, enough now, time to rest. Not until something overflows in him, and causes this anxiety, and the panic if he does not heed the warnings. So that is what happened tonight,” said Erestor. “He is somewhere in the house, either sleeping or meditating, trying to clear his mind to rid himself of the overflow so that he does not emotionally flood.”

“I cannot say that makes me feel all that much better about tonight, nor do I really understand how walking away is better than talking about it, because it seems frustratingly backwards, but what I am taking away is that it sucks right now, but it would suck even more if I try to get him to talk about it now,” said Glorfindel.

“We have been talking for awhile,” Erestor pointed out, for the candle was shorter now than it had been when they entered. “Fingon may have had enough alone time by now.”

“Hide and seek, then?” 

“Meh.” Erestor whistled, and from under the bed, the little house dog promptly stretched his way out, belly to the floor, and wagged his tail after a relaxed yawn. “Hey, boy. Want to play a game? Huh? Want to play a game with us?”

Of course the dog wanted to play a game, and he play bowed and wagged his tail and yipped excitedly.

“Can you find Káno? Where is Káno? Go find Káno, boy,” directed Erestor.

The dog gave a little snort and shook out his fluff. This did not sound like a game. It sounded like a chore, and one the elves did not want to do on their own. Leave it to them to only appreciate him for his good nose, thought the dog, and he trotted out of the room to show them where the other elf was.

Glorfindel retrieved the candle, and both he and Erestor followed the dog down the hallway to another set of stairs that led up to the third story. This level was mostly unused, for there was more than enough space in the rest of the cottage, and it would mean heating and maintaining the rooms here. Instead, it was more storage for things that had been left behind. This third floor appeared to have contained sleeping spaces for guests and a few smaller meeting rooms for larger gatherings. 

The dog paused in the middle of the hallway to sniff, and dutifully pushed one of these meeting rooms open with his nose. He stopped in the doorway, one front paw aloft. He knew exactly where the other elf was in this room, but he was not about to do all the work himself.

Glorfindel stood back a bit while Erestor entered. It was a good choice for hiding -- there were a variety of cabinets and chests, any one of which Fingon might fit into, but it was the neglected pile of old linens in the corner that caught Erestor’s eye, for they were not as dusty even in the faint light as everything else in the room. 

Erestor walked carefully around the other items so as not to disturb them, and knelt down beside the perceived pile on the floor. Now that he was closer, it was easier to see the form beneath, and Erestor gently stroked his hand over the part where it appeared Fingon’s head would be. There was no movement at first, but after a few moments, the fabric rustled, and Fingon folded down the cloth covering him so that he could peek out over it. Erestor withdrew his hand for a moment, and then touched the tip of Fingon’s nose with one finger. “Tag,” he said softly. “No tag backs,” he added when he saw Fingon start to reach over the top of the cloth with one hand.

“Hi there,” replied Fingon sleepily.

“Hi.” Erestor stroked Fingon’s hair. “Feeling better?” When Fingon nodded, Erestor replied with, “Good.” He ran his fingers through the barely shoulder-length fluffy hair a little longer before he said, “I told Glorfindel about some things we have talked about before. We can discuss more later,” he said soothingly. “We were going to go to bed -- did you want to join us?”

“How late is it?” asked Fingon.

“Probably not an hour since you got up here,” Erestor replied.

“You finished your project already?” Fingon asked with uncertainty.

Erestor shook his head. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“You are more important,” voiced Glorfindel from not far behind.

Fingon pushed the cloth and blankets to the side. “You worked so hard on that, though. Just because I have an issue with something does not mean you cannot do it. Besides, Erestor actually cooked something and it did not burn or smell funny or make anyone sick, so I feel like this victory needs to be celebrated. Come on; I can help,” he offered as he stood up.

“Not before I tell you that I love you very much, and I want a hug,” Glorfindel said. “And that I wonder if you would be willing to make us some tea and toast. I feel a little unsettled and I think that would help me. Maybe something with a little ginger in it, if it would not be too hard.” His hand lingered on Fingon’s upper arm. Right now all the new information, what had happened, and how suddenly normal everything seemed to be filtered through to him as more than a little disconcerting. Even though he felt like he should be the one offering comfort, he found instead that he wanted nothing more than for Fingon to hold him.

“Of course.” Without a moment of hesitation, Fingon shrugged away the sheets and had Glorfindel in his arms. He began to stroke Glorfindel’s hair much the same way Erestor had been tending to him. “One of the interns brought some cranberry walnut bread to work today. She miscalculated how many loaves her recipe would make, and she was handing it out to everyone. I have a loaf downstairs if you would like to try some of that -- or, we still have some of that rye from yesterday. Whatever you like, honey.” He kissed Glorfindel on the forehead and embraced him tightly. “I love you, too.”

The blond squeezed his eyes shut, and fought down that he was on the edge of crying. Breath after deep breath, he waited to speak until his voice would be steady. “You are sure you do not mind us working on the medlars?” he asked, needing to be certain.

Fingon kissed Glorfindel above his ear and nodded, rubbing their cheeks together. “I can make something light for us to eat, I will tend to the dog so he is not underfoot, and if I can help with the project in some way, I will. As long as I can avoid touching that really… creative… mold you two found,” he finished.

“We will not be using that,” Glorfindel said, averting his eyes. “It has been put away.”

“Why not? You should,” reasoned Fingon. “I am not going to eat any of it, but this is not that much different from the questionably twisted carrots or obscene eggplants or really long and slightly curved zucchini that find their way into the kitchen.” He ran his fingers through Glorfindel’s hair. “Please do not let me ruin your fun. My sense of humor is off sometimes. I was also drinking on an empty stomach. We can go into details later, but the two of you were having a good time, and even if I cannot ‘get it’, seeing the two of you enjoying your little jokes is heartwarming.”

“Maybe,” Glorfindel mumbled, looking to Erestor. 

“Come on, Fin,” the dark one said, holding out his hand. “I am not to do anything with food without you there, remember?”

“Even you could not ruin pushing fruit through a sieve,” Glorfindel countered, allowing Erestor to take his hand and lead him away.

“Wait. Is that a challenge?” Erestor grinned, though even he wondered the same thing. 

“No,” Glorfindel added hurriedly. “I would never challenge a superpower. It would be tantamount to disrespecting our Lords and Ladies.” His tone was serious but a twinkle of humor had crept back into his blue eyes. “Erestor?” he stopped, halting their progress.

“What?”

“I love you,” Glorfindel said, embracing his mate.

“I love you too, Fin.” Erestor patted him on the back, and frowned a little, wondering. With a kiss to his nose, he kept on going down the stairs. “Those medlars are not going to squeeze themselves, you know.”

Fingon, who had been leisurely following behind them with his blanket draped over one shoulder, hands in his pockets, dog padding beside him, stopped to lean against the wall before they began their movement toward the kitchen again. “You two are absolutely fucking adorable,” he called out to them while he continued on behind.


	2. Wait for Something More

The lamps were re-lit, comforting food prepared, and not quite two hours later, a mass of ruddy goo was ready to go back into the jam pan. “I think we should do the final cooking in the morning,” Glorfindel said, staring at the paste. “It seems like it might be tempting fate to do any more with this tonight. And probably the skins can go to the chickens, along with the seeds; there cannot be any possible harm in letting them eat all of that.”

“I will take it out to them,” Erestor offered. “Then you just have to cover the bowl and wash the sieve.”

“Deal,” returned Glorfindel.

Fingon finished his tasks of mopping the floor around the workspace and wiping down the table while Erestor gathered what he planned to take out. Fingon brought the rag he used on the table to the wash basin at the same time Glorfindel was positioning the now clean sieve on a towel to drip dry. “I wish I had some sort of warning system built in,” began Fingon now that they were alone. “Like a tea kettle - you can hear the boiling, then the hissing noise, and then when it gets serious there is the whistle, all before the little metal part of the spout flies off. I need something like that, so it makes sense, when I remove myself from the figurative fire.” He wrung out the rag and hung it on a peg to dry.

“I am not upset with you,” Glorfindel explained. “This is not your fault. But as I had not been aware of this before now, I…” He stopped, placing both hands on the countertop and sighing. “I felt scared.”

Fingon wiped his hands on a towel and came to stand behind Glorfindel, his hands upon Glorfindel’s shoulders. “I am not sure what else to say. I am sorry,” he added quickly. “I would never hurt you or scare you purposely. I cherish you, Glorfindel. I love you so much.” Fingon bowed his head and kissed the crown of Glorfindel’s head. “I can try to explain. Eres said he told you about some of it… you probably have questions,” Fingon guessed.

“Please do not feel you need to apologize repeatedly,” the blond said, nuzzling closer to him. “He did tell me. But… I am trying to understand and I find I cannot quite see a way to relate? I mean, I am no stranger to having emotions that outpace the realities of a given situation. But the level of blame you seem to internalize… if what he said is accurate. How… shit I have no way of asking this without it sounding like I am criticizing your feelings. And I do not want to do that,” he said, holding him tightly.

“I wish you would,” Fingon said as he embraced Glorfindel in return. “Ask whatever you want, that is. I am… refreshed is the best way to explain it. It is like waking up after a long sleep, and everything that happened and all of the emotions are so far away.”

“Alright,” Glorfindel said slowly. “I shall try. Mostly… you are really intelligent. I have seen how rational... logical you can be. So how could you of all people blame yourself for as many of the things as he says you do? You have to know that there is just… no basis, for that kind of excess?”

“Right now, standing here and thinking about it, you are absolutely right. It makes no sense,” agreed Fingon. “I get myself into situations where I am under pressure, and I bottle it up because I look around and I decide everyone else has it worse than I do. It eats at me, like a disease, and when it weakens me, all of those illogical, irrational thoughts take over. I start to second guess all of my choices. I feel responsible, yes, for much. For a lot of things that probably make no sense, but when I am at those points of… fear and panic, logic goes right out of the window.”

“Well, maybe I do understand after all, then.” Glorfindel looked away, recalling a few of the more spectacular episodes in which the same description had applied to his own reasoning. Not just for a few hours, but for far longer. “I just hate seeing you hurt like that. I wish I could help somehow, even though I know that is not how these things work, really.”

Fingon took hold of Glorfindel’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “You are very sweet, Glorfindel. It was really not fair of me to keep this from you. I suppose I thought that perhaps it would just stop.” He kissed along Glorfindel’s wrist and arm, then took hold of both of Glorfindel’s hands. “I have what healers have called ‘sparks’, like that spark that lights kindling. Without the spark, the kindling does nothing. A spark can ignite it, but it starts slowly. If I catch it, or keep the kindling away from sparks, I can be fine for a really long time. It is only when things start burning and I have no way to put out the fire before it consumes me that I get into situations such as tonight.”

He coaxed Glorfindel to come and sit with him at the table. Once they were across from one another, Fingon took hold of Glorfindel’s hands again, and rubbed his thumbs over Glorfindel’s knuckles as he spoke. “The only span of time when I had utter peace, other than my time in the Halls of Waiting, was when I was with Beleg. The first time it happened when he was with me, he managed to get me away from where we were to a very secluded area. Once I was calm, he told me about his sister -- she was very anxious around people -- skittish, really. She lived outside of Doriath, mostly up in the trees. It reminded him of what was happening with me. Too many people is the very obvious way that this occurs -- I have to use a lot of energy to function ‘normally’. Stress is the other, and that one is quite difficult, because sometimes I do not even know when that will cause problems for me. Beleg made me… unload, at least a few times every week. He made me answer questions like ‘how was your day’ honestly. That seemed to alleviate some of the things I was keeping to myself. I had a shitty day at work today,” he finally admitted. “But I came home, and the two of you were having fun, and I felt that if I told you about my troubles that was going to ruin the evening for the two of you -- and I practically ruined it anyhow,” he finished.

“Is this where I inquire why your life is structured as it is, if this is what ‘normal’ does to you? Maybe you aren’t meant to be spending your time as you do, if the emotional cost is so high? There is no shame in considering whether changes need to be made, for your well-being. Or if not that, could I be your Beleg?” Glorfindel watched Fingon caressing his hands, mesmerized, revelling in the gentle touches. “Would you let me rub your back?” The seeming non sequitur arose from a desire to touch Fingon in some way, but not be threatening or off-putting.

Initially, Fingon tensed at the offer, but almost as quickly relaxed and nodded. “I do not want you to be my Beleg - I want you to be my Findel,” Fingon said affectionately. “I think I was able to share things with him as readily as I did because we kept a certain distance between us. It was a very comfortable relationship, but we knew we would never really be lovers.” Fingon gave Glorfindel’s hands a squeeze. “I love you… but I envision, someday, soon, maybe, I hope, that… I hope for us to truly be lovers, to feel that way about each other.” He looked up from their hands and gave a sad smile. “Every time I walk or ride home alone on a bad day, I talk myself into telling the two of you how things have been by the time I make it halfway, and talk myself out of it by the time I walk in. I just want everything to be perfect, and I worry that saying the wrong thing will ruin that. Logically, I know that you would both be willing to listen -- but I do not want to be a whiny burden.” He bowed his head and sighed. “Even talking now, I sound as if I am complaining.”

“Do you want to hear about a whiny burden?” Glorfindel asked softly. “Shall I tell you the stories of a certain elf who for three ages, pined and cried in private and not-so-private moments over the sheer torment of being deeply in love with someone who would never really open himself to me? Not even a little? I can out-whine you. I am fairly certain of it. What I would like is to not have a reason to. Especially that reason.” Not really knowing how to say more, his head dropped forward and rested against Fingon’s shoulder. They had different views on what constituted perfection, it would seem. And yet this felt very...tenuous.

Again, Fingon sighed. Words seemed to come easier now that he did not worry about looking Glorfindel in the eyes, and he lifted his hand to stroke Glorfindel’s hair as he said, “I worry that I will say the wrong thing and lose one of you. Or both of you. I never worried about what I said to Beleg, because if I lost him, it would have been sad, yes, but I would have coped. I never want to have to imagine a future without you or Erestor, and I… I cannot imagine I could survive one alone.”

“I wish with all my heart that I could say I have never left someone. I will always feel ashamed of my choices, but I have to accept that it is in the past and that you have both forgiven me. What I can tell you is that I never left because of what someone said to me. I left because of what could not be discussed; what never seemed to change. And that is not how I mean that to sound. Fingon…” His hand came up to trace his fingers down the silky throat and collarbone. “I know that same fear. Do you think I could ever leave you, after you both showed me the grace of bringing me back into your lives?” Unsteadiness crept into his tone, and he blinked back tears that welled quickly. “Can you not see it? I am the same!” It was hopeless. Hot tears splashed from his eyes, but that was little compared to the dread that came, even to have to remember for a moment what that time of his life had been.

“Sweetheart…” Fingon tried to awkwardly embrace Glorfindel from across the table, but he finally detangled himself only to sit down beside Glorfindel and to hold him while leaning against him for support as well. “I never wanted you out of my life. You and Erestor are so special to me, so much so that I would do anything to make both of you happy… literally anything. I was on my knees in there earlier,” he reminded, a nod of his head in the direction of the oft unused room. “It takes a lot to bring a king to his knees, you know,” he said as he kissed at the side of Glorfindel’s head, just over his ear.

“Could we move to the couch?” the blond whispered, more emotionally bewildered than he had expected to be.

“Anywhere you like, honey,” said Fingon. He did not even bother to push in the chairs as they transitioned to the other room and sat down comfortably close to one another. Once situated, Fingon took hold of one of Glorfindel’s hands again and stroked it thoughtfully. He opened his mouth, but shut it before anything came out. “I nearly apologized again,” he mumbled after a moment.

Glorfindel snorted. “I would rather have that than the other. Though you do not need to. But at least when someone apologizes and it is sincere, it means they care.” Tentatively, he reached his arms toward Fingon’s waist. “Please hold me?”

The door opened, and Erestor returned to find Fingon lounged against the arm of the couch with Glorfindel lying atop him, both of them holding the other. “This looks nice,” remarked Erestor, who leaned down to kiss each of his lovers before he motioned to the upper level. “I thought I would get the bed ready for us; it is late. Unless you need me for anything?” He looked between them.

“Need you for everything,” murmured Glorfindel indistinctly. That he did not wish to dissolve into a puddle of tears had no bearing on how close that was to happening.

“Forever and ever,” added Fingon, but he lifted a hand to give Erestor a gentle pat on the rear. “I think we will be coming to bed soon as well.” Erestor gave a nod and left the room. His footfalls were faintly heard on the stairs moments later. Fingon closed his eyes and tightened his arms slightly. “I could hold you like this every day of my life,” he whispered.

“I want that. So much. I wish I was better with words,” Glorfindel sniffled. “And I have made a mess of this. I wanted to be the one supporting you, but then I turned into me and…” A deep sigh escaped him. “And here we are. I love you, however much I trip over myself.” His hold tightened as well, and he was now smiling because his moment of darkness was passing.

“I love you, too, no matter how frustrating it must be to cohabitate with me at times. Also, I did not forget about your offer to rub my back, and I intend to collect on that. In fact, when we go to bed, I am taking the middle tonight,” Fingon declared. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement where I come home from work, and seek you out, and we cuddle, and you ask me how my day is, and if I respond with ‘fine’ or something equally bland and obviously a lie, you just get to blow raspberries on my stomach until I tell you the truth.”

Glorfindel’s demeanor changed completely. Lifting his head, his eyes sparkled now, and he smiled. “I would like that so much.” Quickly he knuckled the streaks of tears away, still embarrassed to be so emotive. “And I want very much to rub your back. I like touching skin. Hopefully that does not make me sound too predatory.”

Fingon chuckled. “I like to be touched - it reminds me I am alive. I have days I wake up in a haze, and I scratch myself or dig my nail into my skin just to check to see if I am still here. Back rubs are far more pleasing.”

“Then I will give my all to remind you that you are indeed here. Maybe if you are very good I will give you one of my special backrubs. We will see.”

“Oh, come on, now you have to,” insisted Fingon. “How can you expect me to sleep wondering what the difference between a regular old backrub and a special backrub is?”

“But I thought you wanted to relax,” Glorfindel countered, a little confused. “The special ones are a little more… active. They involve a lot of stretching and body articulation. You know, because a lot of times when someone is tense it is because their poor muscles are… well, you are an athlete. I will not embarrass myself explaining this to you.”

“Oh, but how will I ever learn without explanations?” teased Fingon. “You said it yourself -- I am an athlete, and we need a lot of things spelled out for us. We look absolutely stunning from a physical standpoint, but everything up here is a little slow sometimes,” he said as he tapped the side of his own head.

“Everyone thought that about me in Gondolin, early on,” Glorfindel said. “Pretty, but not much upstairs. Which is why I would never think that about you. Though I am not so sure I rate the ‘stunning’ part any longer.” He poked his own tummy, smiling. “I do not quite look as fit as I once did.”

“Really? Because I think you look gorgeous,” said Fingon without hesitation as he traced a finger along Glorfindel’s cheek. “As for your intellectual abilities, I think we both know -- actually, let me revise that -- I think everyone in this house knows that you are the most intelligent person here. Erestor may have an edge when it comes to wisdom, but I look at some of your inventions and they put Fëanor to shame. I see some of the equations you work out for Erestor for things with the land out back and your calculations are always exact. I have no idea how someone could not be in awe of you.”

“Because we all have strengths and deficits,” Glorfindel shrugged. “I do not see myself as you do. I envy how Erestor can write a poem, because such ability with words eludes me. I see your mind for organization and it functions on another plane than what I can manage. Perhaps we could agree that it is easier to see the gifts others have, while dutifully ignoring our own.”

“Mmm… for better or for worse, you will discover that I am… somewhat conceited. I am the greatest gymnast to have ever lived in Valinor, and I know this because there is a giant fucking statue that says so to every visitor who makes it to the end of Pallando Road. I am also a great hunter, I have really nice eyes, I am a pretty good kisser, and there are some songs I can perform better than Maglor. I mean, technically, he plays harp better, but since he is so shy about singing, I am able to best him in that, and overall, I am a solid minstrel. If I had to I could do that occupationally. So maybe part of my trouble has been that my self-confidence is confused for a lack of anxiety, so when I used to voice concerns in the past about not wanting to be at family gatherings or preferring to stay home and read a book, I would just be laughed at, ignored, or told to grow up. So I shut up and grew up. But maybe I did it too fast, and that uncertain little boy is still in here somewhere, because unlike others whose youth faded away slowly, I just buried mine alive in a shallow grave. Well, shit, that was morbid,” realized Fingon after he said the words.

“Uhm….” Glorfindel murmured, the corners of his lips curling up. “I can live with your-- call it what you wish; self-confidence, conceit, it matters not to me-- if you can not mind that I do not possess those attributes in the same way. You and I walked very different paths, but the concept of derailed childhood is not completely foreign to me. But more to the point, I will not mock you or tell you any such awful thing, should you speak of your troubles. You are dear to me, and as you have so efficiently pointed out, there is much to admire about you.” He smiled up at Fingon, his dimples now particularly pronounced. “I wonder if you would let me admire you up in the bedroom?”

“Please,” agreed Fingon. “You are ever so fortunate you get me in the flesh, and not that statue in the Pallando courtyard.” Fingon loosened his grip so that Glorfindel could stand. “I believe there is still some sort of a backrub in my near future,” he added.

“My hands are twitching in anticipation,” Glorfindel teased as he rose up to stand, except, he really was not teasing at all. He licked his lips at the mere idea of getting his hands on all that smooth, warm skin.

Very gracefully, Fingon lifted himself up from the couch, his eyes locked with Glorfindel’s. Once standing, he made quite the show of stretching, basic at first, until he lifted one leg up, bent at the knee, held the flamingo-like position, then continued to contort his body until the same leg was lifted higher, and his foot managed to point upwards, above his head. “I find it important to stretch before physical activities,” he said as he lowered the leg and repeated the movements with the other side.

Glorfindel tried, unsuccessfully, to mute the whimper that escaped him. Sometimes it seemed very challenging. ‘Look but don’t touch.’ But he very much wanted to touch. Everything. Oh, the irony. Who really was the one with hands tied behind his back? “Are you enjoying yourself, tormenting me?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off of the living display case brimming with unattainable delights.

“This? This is nothing,” purred Fingon. He lowered his leg back down and slowly removed his shirt so as not to tear the stitching. He walked a few steps away, still his eyes on Glorfindel, looking over his shoulder, until he reached the spot where he wanted to be. He stretched for a moment, all very basic: arms, shoulders, neck, and the like. Then he quite easily reversed his position so that he was performing a handstand, however, he did not stop there. Once he was certain he was in control of his balance, he arched his back and started to lower his legs, but not the way to regain a standing position. Instead, he continued to arch and strain the muscles of his back until his feet were touching his head, and then held the very difficult position. The muscles of his arms and torso were on display, and his breathing was slow and deliberate, in through his nose and out between slightly parted lips. “Well?” he prodded.

Glorfindel’s mouth had relaxed, as he followed each motion with his eyes. His breathing quickened; as Fingon’s legs slowly and deliciously arced, he barely was aware that his mind feasted on every motion. The taut muscles, the beauty of the pose itself, and to be brutally honest with himself, the exquisite outline of what nestled between his love’s thighs. That same place on his own body paid far more attention, though, as he realized that his arousal now strained against his leggings. Blushing, he tried to tug his tunic a little lower. What was he supposed to say? ‘Fingon, I’d like to fuck your brains out’ would assuredly be unwelcome. Instead he cleared his throat and stammered. “Be-beautiful. You are so beautiful.” His voice cracked a little, which made him blush even more. “I…” A groan escaped him. Nothing he could say would come out right, so he would just have to stand there with his all-too-visible erection and… stand there.

Just as carefully as he had executed the move, Fingon eased his body back down again and stood up. If he noticed Glorfindel’s arousal, he was kind enough to pretend not to. “I think I might enjoy that… special backrub now,” requested Fingon, despite having only the slightest idea of what that would entail. He stepped closer and lifted a leg up again much as he had the first time, only now he used the back of it to caress the side of Glorfindel’s face, then traced his toes from Glorfindel’s throat down his chest, from chest to abdomen, and just a little further, but not too far, not quite where Glorfindel might have liked him to end up, before he lowered his leg back down again, only to use it to hook around Glorfindel’s hip to pull him closer. “Shall we?”

The blond nodded, completely subjugated by the eroticism in those sinuous movements, desire made all the more keen because of the nearly nonexistent odds of his finding relief with the architect of his provocation. “After you,” Fingon said.

Fingon leading the way upstairs would be the only means by which he could possibly move; currently Glorfindel’s feet had rooted themselves to the floor. Some dim awareness came that he had been led by the hand to where Erestor already lay under the covers, though glinting eyes in the candle-light revealed he did not yet sleep. “Remove your clothes,” Glorfindel whispered. “Lie on your belly. Ress, would you mind giving Fingon the middle place in bed tonight?”

Erestor moved over obligingly rather than reply, his curiosity now piqued. Rather than pretend otherwise any longer, Glorfindel stripped off his own clothes. This was easiest done without the hindrance of fabric, despite what it would reveal about his current state of arousal. In the dark, Erestor’s eyebrow arched. The proceedings had his full attention. A ceramic jar of skin cream was nearby: something that would not ruin the sheets or fail to absorb. Straddling Fingon carefully, he placed his arms at his sides, palms up, and spread the cream lightly on Fingon’s upper back. The first place he delved into with the heels of hands were the usually tender muscles between the spine and the shoulder blades. Glorfindel moved to press the weight of his body into the smooth strokes against Fingon’s back, closing his eyes to better perceive the distribution of bone and muscle in his mind’s eye.

Glorfindel moved around quite a bit; after the first moments, Erestor sat in the upper corner of the bed, his knees tucked up under his chin. His mouth watered and he swallowed hard more than once, to watch Glorfindel’s elegant motions as he constantly shifted positions. One moment he might be straddling Fingon suggestively; the next he was off the bed and maneuvering limbs every which way as strong fingers probed and massaged at all of the muscles. And all the while, the sight of Glorfindel’s erection in the dim light tormented Erestor until he had a similar problem of his own. At no time did Glorfindel touch Fingon in a sexual or seductive manner, which did not change that the vision before Erestor’s eyes was all of those things and more.

“You have amazing hands,” mumbled Fingon to break the silence. “Must be the artist in you,” he added. Massage was typical therapy when he was a gymnast, and an indulgence when he was dancing. As a child, when his anxiety manifested, his mother would lovingly rub his upper back until he stopped trembling and hiccuping, and his agreement to partaking in the activity came from these memories. This was so exquisitely different though, and there was nothing clinical about it, and it was wonderful. He smiled as another random thought crossed his mind -- his short hair gave Glorfindel the advantage of working without an obstruction, and this bit of knowledge was filed away. Fingon opened his eyes, worried that keeping them closed would lead to him dozing off. Erestor was nearby, he noticed, and he looked up without moving his head. “Hi, there, beautiful,” he said sleepily.

“Hello, Káno” Erestor managed to spit out. The usual sense of feeling unsettled was present. Erestor felt pure lust and yearning, coupled with the knowledge that those were not actionable desires. So he tried to turn those wants toward Glorfindel, as he always did. One hand rested over his arousal, both to hide it and to occasionally tease himself further with an occasional light squeeze. Glorfindel’s attentions to Fingon continued for quite some time. The candle was guttering low by the time he finally placed a single kiss to the back of his head, sighing deeply. Only now did the blond look at Erestor with pleading in his eyes, as his manhood visibly pulsed with unrelieved tension.

“This has been divine,” purred Fingon, now thoroughly pampered and relaxed. “I cannot help but to think that your talents far exceed what wonders I have experienced this evening. Just as you are masterful at external massage, I have a feeling those skills extend to internal massage as well… perhaps the two of you would be so kind as to exhibit them for me? Eres appears quite willing to assist,” remarked Fingon as his gaze fell upon Erestor’s erection.

Something between a strangled cough and a whimper escaped Glorfindel, who, now that he was no longer occupied with Fingon’s skeletal muscles, found his focus shifting rapidly. He held out a hand to Erestor, hoping that his mate’s expression indicated what he hoped it did. Erestor darted a wistful smile at Fingon, before taking the offered hand and rising up on his knees to kiss Glorfindel. His free hand caressed his partner’s manhood just once, brushing his fingers along the wanting organ, smiling to himself as the deep moan reverberated into his own mouth. With one more peck on the lips, Erestor moved around behind Glorfindel, signaling which role he wished for tonight. The blond quickly lowered his body into position, offering Erestor full access. Taking a chance, and knowing that Fingon could refuse with just a gesture, he carefully straddled Fingon once again. 

Fingon’s initial thought was that he had somehow said or done something that made Glorfindel believe he wanted to be involved in what was about to happen. His next thought, which came before he could buck Glorfindel off of his back, was that neither Glorfindel nor Erestor would ever do such a thing. Despite the flutter in his stomach, Fingon tried to keep his muscles from tensing and waited to see what Glorfindel intended to do next.

With one hand, Glorfindel applied some more hand creme, but this time massaged it carefully onto each of the perfect globes of Fingon’s remarkable ass. Those toned muscles in each of his hands… an involuntary shudder ran through him. And a moment later, when his swollen length slid against those delicious curves… he had to stop himself, panting, or this would end before it began.

“Mmm... this is nice,” encouraged Fingon now that he realized what Glorfindel intended to do, and how he planned to involve all three of them without Fingon participating in the actual intercourse. “So is this the way special massages work? You come all over me, and use it instead of lotion?” Fingon teased gently.

“I would not do that unless you want me to,” Glorfindel said, barely able to keep himself coherent under Erestor’s preparations. “I just wanted to feel you. All the watching you, touching you. I think you have some idea how beautiful you are.” His free hand, such as it was, still caressed Fingon’s back, while he lightly rested his cheek there as well. He glanced back at Erestor, knowing that yet more pleasure was to follow.

“Some idea? Honey, please…” Fingon rolled his shoulders slightly to adjust his position without disrupting Glorfindel. “You can stay perched up there as long as you want, provided you give me details, Sweetheart. See, we really need a mirrored headboard, and until that happens, I cannot see what Eres is doing to you back there, and I would very much like for you to share that with me,” drawled Fingon.

“Wait. Does that mean you would let me…?” He bit his lip in sheer hopefulness.

“Uhm… let you…” Fingon widened his eyes and tensed.

“He wants to know if you would indeed permit him to spend his seed on your skin,” Erestor offered as diplomatically as possible. “The idea excites him, but he knows how you are about cleanliness and that you can have strong preferences. And has no wish to transgress any of your boundaries.”

Glorfindel shot a grateful look back at Erestor. He would have managed to make word soup out of the explanation.

“Oh, that, yes, that would be fine,” Fingon said rather quickly. “I thought you meant, you know, ACTUALLY actually… that is, when I said sharing that with me, that you thought I meant doing with you, what Erestor is going to do with you, with you being Glorfindel,” he continued to babble. “Obviously. Which, not to say that perhaps maybe someday that might… erm…” He took a deep breath. “This is fine because I cannot see anyone’s penis,” he finished in a rush, and he hit his head against the pillow a few times, his cheeks and the back of his neck flushed. “Sex is dirty and messy and I can handle a little - or a lot - of sticky fluid now and then.”

“Thank you,” Glorfindel said, with great sincerity. “You do not know what this means to me.” He caressed Fingon’s back once again. “As for the other… I would not presume I could even ask that of you. I promise I will carefully clean up my mess; I am just grateful, for this indulgence.” Erestor chose that exact moment to penetrate Glorfindel deeply, forcing his hips lower and against Fingon’s body. The dark one wore a smile of triumph, to hear the moan of ecstasy that he wrung from Glorfindel’s lips. For a moment he paused in his mild domination, just to savor the sight before him.

For a moment, pinned between Erestor and Fingon, Glorfindel could indulge himself in the fantasy that his penis was somewhere else, surrounded as it was by contact with warm flesh: both his own and Fingon’s. That sensation felt incomparable. He hoped it was not wrong, somehow, to want more, if and when that time ever arrived.

With his arms wrapped around a pillow, Fingon turned his head to moan softly into the fabric and fluff. From torso down he was immobilized -- the weight of both of his partners upon him saw to that. Pinned down as he was, there was no way to create any sort of stimulation to his own penis, but it hardly mattered, for excited though he was at the moment, he knew he was limp without really thinking about it. Climax and release for him in intimate situations was less physical than it was for most. Instead of concentrated sensations and a need for movement, contact was far more important, and breathing, and immersion in the way his entire body and spirit could become focused on the closeness, joy, and love of each moment. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, and listened to all of the sounds his lovers made.

“I know what you want,” Erestor said authoritatively, though to whom he was speaking was left unclear. He lifted his weight just enough to allow Glorfindel an inch or two in which to move against Fingon’s buttocks, while communicating silently to the blond some suggestions for what Fingon might appreciate most of all. Glorfindel nodded his assent, as Erestor set an erotic pace to their lovemaking; it was a little slower than he might ordinarily choose. Glorfindel did as he was instructed: caressing, touching, nibbling and licking on every part of Fingon’s bare skin as though he were at his own private feast. His lover underneath him was silent, but he paid attention to what Erestor indicated, whether he felt tension in the frame below him or not. He took Fingon’s relaxation and regular breathing to indicate that he was pleasing his lover. Or at least, he hoped so. For the end, there were the ears. And kisses.

“So beautiful,” Glorfindel began to whisper. “How much I desire you, all the time. To touch you, glide across your skin…” Incoherent sounds of pleasure interspersed with scattered bits of mental narrative. Some of what he repeated were passing thoughts of Erestor’s as well, but anything intelligible reaching Fingon’s hearing came at this time from Glorfindel.

Thinking logically was difficult at the moment for Fingon. He was muscled and strong of body, but his frame was not that of a typical champion. He was a dancer, an archer -- lightweight, and arguably thinner than he should be. Glorfindel’s body alone would not have been much of a challenge, but two elves individually heavier than he now made any sort of movement tricky. Even as he tightened muscles, attempting to give Glorfindel a greater thrill, he struggled a bit and grunted. Worry crept over him, and thinking it might be misconstrued for disappointment or lack of desire, Fingon murmured to Glorfindel in return. “Keep speaking, sweetheart. I adore your words… your honesty… the sound of your voice…”

Glorfindel’s heart leaped, and he smiled. “If there is something we could do different, or better, please tell me? I want to know how to give you enjoyment, if there is anything that involves more than me talking. Such happiness... you are allowing me...”

“There is nothing better than to be here, with both of you. To be loved and accepted as I am, even if some of it is hard for me to explain.” Fingon pulled the pillow a little closer, emotion surging through him. “Being part of ‘us’ and ‘we’ without awkward compromise. If there is anything I might request, it would be ample snuggling after -- but I feel you know that already, and I request that I shut up,” he said playfully, “for your voices are sweeter to me, and your touches are soothing my soul.”

Overjoyed, Glorfindel resumed his kisses and caresses, and for a few moments was content to lie lightly atop Fingon, bearing much of his own weight. This was just to hug the slender form underneath him, and occasionally rub at his ears or run fingers through his hair. He already had seen… one had to wait with Fingon, but in the end the waiting was worth it. So worth it.

Fingon might have continued with his lovely words, but all philosophical meanderings halted the moment he felt the pads of Glorfindel’s fingers trace the curve of his ears. He released a trembling whimper into the pillow, and clawed at it with eyes squeezed shut. Sometimes, he could last for hours, but if someone knew his weakness, he could find pleasure in mere seconds. Again, Fingon let out something of a muffled squeak as Glorfindel made a second pass, and Fingon’s hips jerked involuntarily. Pinned down, it did not disturb his companions, but he was certain that Glorfindel felt it, and upon the third time he moved the same way again and pulled the pillow closer.

“Am I going too fast for you?” Glorfindel wanted to know. He felt a bit like someone moving through a dark cavern, having to guess and grope at the nature of his surroundings.

Fingon attempted to answer with a word, but the only noise that came out was a gasp that was somewhat higher in pitch than expected. He let out a fractured humming sound each time his ears were touched. His neck was sensitive, too; each time Glorfindel’s palm brushed against it, he would bury his face into the sanctuary of his pillow to muffle the indescribable noises he made. “Tongue,” he suddenly blurted out the very next time Glorfindel’s fingers made contact with his ears. “Use your tongue -- please!”

“Mmmm, coming right up,” Glorfindel murmured, silently telling Erestor to allow him to move forward. Carefully stretching the line of Fingon’s neck, he admonished him: “Relax, now. Let my hands move you.” Once he felt the resistance of his muscles fade away, he had a lovely template on which to work his talents. First were soft kisses, and then the very experienced tongue went to work.

For the next few minutes, Fingon concentrated on breathing slow and even, and tried to keep his movements restricted to the curling and unfurling of his fingers and toes as he kneaded the pillow and reacted to the alternating of light, moist flicks to the swirls of Glorfindel’s tongue upon his bare skin. Fingon only worried momentarily that his request had been too bold, but now it was evident that Glorfindel would acquiesce to his desires, indulging Fingon while seemingly indulging himself, and so when there was a break in the action, Fingon added another suggestion, uncertain what information Erestor supplied to Glorfindel. “Just after you use your tongue,” said Fingon quietly so that he did not ruin the mood, “you could, ahm… just blow across, like… just gently, like cooling off soup.” Fingon groaned after he heard his own words. “It, ah, it really is more erotic than I just made it sound.”

“You are not the only one who enjoys that,” Glorfindel purred. “Do you not know that your wish is my command, your Majesty?” Compliance was immediate. Glorfindel focused on pursing his lips just as he had seen Ecthelion do long ago, when he played on his flute. So very softly, and with as wide a stream of air as he could manage. It pleased him to no end to see that while Fingon remained mostly silent, he did have little physical responses: clutching at the fabrics and small movements with his hands. This was so much more than he had hoped for when they began.

The delusion that he was still a king was an exciting one: that here, his two most loyal subjects were willing to see to his every wish and whim. It was a fun little fantasy, but it was not what he needed. He needed the understanding and intimacy of a lover; he needed Glorfindel just as much as he needed Erestor. That sudden realization caused a sharp intake of air. He let it out slowly, and reached back with one hand to blindly stroke Glorfindel’s hair, cheek, shoulder -- anything, really. He had no words left now, only the hope that Glorfindel could tell that he wished to continue, and that he was grateful to be in this moment with both of his lovers.

Erestor massaged Glorfindel’s back, content to observe the play taking place. Though, he wished that somehow they could be arranged in some manner that allowed for equal contact between them. With a sudden gasp, his overstimulated mind and body gave into the inevitable; he burst inside of Glorfindel with a loud moan of pleasure. Resting for a moment against the blonde’s sturdy back, but true to himself, he leaned over a little so he could keep watching his partners.

Glorfindel grinned, viewing Erestor’s climax as a personal victory, and took the few moments to tease Fingon by greatly reducing his attentions to him. This only lasted for a short time; he knew that as soon as Erestor recovered, they would lavish more on their beloved Káno together.

The movements slowed, nearly stopping. There was a shift in positions, and Fingon let out a blissful sigh. “That was nice,” he said as he stretched his arms forward and pointed his toes. Then he gathered up the pillow in his arms, to rest his head on it until Glorfindel - and Erestor - moved off of him. “It was nice, being together like that,” he added.

“Is this where I tell you that we are not done yet, unless you want us to be?” Erestor asked, leaning in to kiss him softly. “That was just me, not being able to last any longer.”

“Ooohh…” Fingon cleared his throat. “In that case, this is where I tell you I am embarrassed.” Fingon licked his lips. “So… I have another thought, then,” he said carefully. “Unless I have exhausted my share of suggestions for the evening.”

“You have all the suggestions,” Glorfindel said, taking advantage of their changed positions to steal a kiss himself. He did what he could to angle his body in such a manner as to hide from Fingon that he had not yet found release.

“In that case -- let me just -- get a bit more comfortable.” Fingon moved as he spoke, rolling very slowly and slightly onto his side so that it was obvious he needed them to also move for a moment. When Fingon was on his side, his eyes darted around until he saw the sash from one of their bathrobes haphazardly left draped over one of the bedposts. He stretched valiantly to acquire it, and once he settled himself again, he tied it loosely over his own eyes. 

Fingon has some idea where Glorfindel was; he had seen him just a moment ago. He reached out, and his hand touched the curve of bare flesh -- and thankfully, it was not what he aimed to avoid. He pulled Glorfindel closer, his hand upon Glorfindel’s hip, and guided him. They were facing one another -- Fingon had to assume Glorfindel would not be looking elsewhere -- with Glorfindel’s erection (which Fingon pretended was just not that) pressed against Fingon’s thigh. “I thought, maybe this way, we could…” Fingon lifted his hand and touched Glorfindel’s cheek, then moved that same hand behind Glorfindel’s neck and pulled him into a fervid kiss. “Unless… if this bothers you, we can do it the other way.”

“Want this. So much.” Glorfindel tried to hide that his hands trembled a little, as he embraced Fingon. This had arrived at a delirium of what he desired to have; nothing else but the actual act of binding could have made him happier--but it was too soon for them, and he knew it. Maybe part of it was that he believed in his mind that Fingon loved him, but… he was not the same as Fingon. He was finally receiving a physical demonstration of that love-- something he needed more than hearing words, in order to fully have faith.

“And I want you. I just… I need time to figure that out,” Fingon said before leaning in for another kiss. This time it was more deliberate and drawn out; several more followed, his tongue lazily, almost timidly joining in at times. “Eres,” he said between kisses, “I seem to be… occupied at the forefront… but if you… find yourself inclined towards it… the other side is available.” Fingon gave the slightest toss of his head, in case Erestor could not figure out on his own that he much desired that Erestor join them, and that having him pressed against his back would be most welcome.

The dark-haired beauty obliged enthusiastically, snuggling against Fingon, before it occurred to him that this would only arouse him all over again. He did what he could to position himself inoffensively, thinking that for all he enjoyed having a penis, it could be occasionally uncooperative in a manner of speaking. Glorfindel took the opportunity to reach further around, embracing Erestor as well.

“Anything for you, Káno,” Glorfindel murmured against his lips, intoxicated with so many sensations. He reeled with each kiss Fingon initiated, hardly able to absorb his sensual delight at such an extensive encounter.

Now cocooned, lovingly and almost timidly spooned by Erestor, and nuzzled against by Glorfindel, Fingon moved his hands carefully, so as not to run into anything he was trying to avoid. He found his mark, and his hands cupped Glorfindel’s ass, and as they continued to kiss, Fingon rubbed his palms in a circular motion. A few times he gave a little squeeze with his left hand; the position of all of them made him have to stretch his right arm slightly more, his dexterity less, but it seemed not to matter to Glorfindel. Fingon pulled Glorfindel closer by his rear, held him there, and slowly tested a few movements with his hip that would create friction against Glorfindel. He found if he tightened the muscles of his thigh, and moved less from his hip and more from the leg, he could emulate a sort of grinding between Glorfindel’s legs. Part of him wanted to see Glorfindel’s face, but Fingon left himself blindfolded as he worked, unwilling to catch a glimpse of his nemesis.

“Oh!” Glorfindel gasped in disbelief. Which sounded far more like “mmmmfff” by the time it made it past dueling lips and tongues. What higher mental function remained to him wondered in a fleeting moment if anything had ever been this good. Emotionally, physically, here and now was a pinnacle in his long life. Lives. Nothing seemed dodgy. Nothing tainted with the pain of knowing that come morning one or both of them might not remember. Or want to remember. Only love, need, desire, and so much willingness to give. He wanted to shout in triumph, cry from joy and groan out of primal lust all at the same time. Swirling around in his mind was the question of whether this much personal happiness all at once was somehow against an unwritten set of rules. Fortunately, Glorfindel was not prone to dwelling on such considerations, and had the good sense to thrust eagerly against Fingon’s body, awash in ardor.

Just as Glorfindel had been accommodating to his wishes, Fingon wanted to reciprocate as well as he was able. His fingers took a firm hold on Glorfindel’s rear, and he pulled his love closer with quick jerks, and leaned his body into it, rocking his hips. “Such a pretty baby,” crooned Fingon into Glorfindel’s ear as he set the pace. “You know I adore you, sweetness.” He kissed along Glorfindel’s ear and to his neck, continuing the steady rhythm. “You make me so happy.”

“Love you… love you… so much.” Variations on those four words rose in pace and pitch as Glorfindel’s passion built past the point of any mastery. Finally his orgasm tore through him, erasing all thought. There was nothing but stars behind his eyes and the desperate straining against Fingon at the height of his ecstasy, followed by an even stronger emotional release. He wept, uncontrollably, relying on Fingon to hold him. Where he was, who he was-- all of it was lost for a short while as powerful feelings coursed through him. Perhaps it was the first time he had ever truly felt unconditionally wanted, needed, and like he mattered as much to his partners as they did to him. It did not cast aspersions on his past with Erestor. The heartfelt outpouring had much more to do with his beliefs about their future.

Fingon fumbled to remove the blindfold before he embraced Glorfindel tightly. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, trying to kiss away the tears. “That was so beautiful. And some people think there is no way to make love without having sex - ha!” Fingon kept one arm around Glorfindel and freed a hand to gently help dry his eyes. “Is something wrong, honey, or are these tears of happiness as I hope them to be?”

Glorfindel blinked, uncertain what to say. They were not single-sentiment tears. Mentioning something that might bring up past disappointments or worse yet, past failures seemed to have no place in this moment. Some incoherent reply was murmured as he tried to buy more time to sort his thoughts, but if anything he held onto Fingon tighter. Fingon was who made all of this possible. It had never felt clearer than in this moment-- he loved Erestor, and Erestor loved him, but together they would never be complete. They never had been complete. Fingon was the framework of their tapestry, the mortar between their stones. The words by which to say that would not coalesce, but the feeling was there, even if it had no way to be expressed just then.

“This is going to sound strange,” said Fingon as he shifted the topic slightly, “but tears tend to fascinate me. I read a book about emotions and thoughts once, and it had a lot of random information in it. Allegedly, different types of tears taste different. The emotion that triggers crying will dictate the water to salt ratio of the tears. It just made me think,” he said as he smiled a little, “who was the odd duck who went around, and when he saw someone crying, decided to lick their faces?”

“I am not certain what disturbs me more,” Erestor opined. “The original writing or that you are thinking about it.” He reached down to steal a kiss, knowing that his teasing would not be easy to infer from his deadpan tone of voice.

“What I find disturbing,” Fingon said, meaning to interrupt but speaking far later than intended, “is the fact that while I am not erect, I am aroused.” In case there was question as to his meaning, he added, “I am not saying anyone has to, but should someone happen to fondle my ears and talk dirty to me, it would not be a disappointment to me. The same is true for kissing -- mostly I say this to you, Eres, because you seem to have free time back there,” he teased. As for Glorfindel, Fingon continued to hold him, and stroked a hand through his hair.

Erestor smiled and ever so lightly started in on the ears. Glorfindel, however, blinked through his tears and with an expression of purest love reached up to claim Fingon’s mouth. His tongue traced the edge of Fingon’s lips, and soft kisses were placed all around before he delved deeper. Erestor could guess that whatever Fin’s mood was, it likely did not include the kind of talk being requested. Especially once he noticed Glorfindel sneaking down under the blanket, nibbling his way to regions further south. They had learned that while their lover did not wish to see penises, there was very little objection to the sensations he could be provided if one of them wished to provide special attention. Smiling, Glorfindel deftly captured the currently placid organ between his lips to see if he might raise some interest.

Until now, the sweet attention bestowed upon Fingon caused him to close his eyes and allow his companions to take the lead. This new development caused them to open, and he swallowed back any expression of uncertainty. The evening was far too lovely for him to end it on a sour note, and yet, he knew he was not capable in that moment of finding the sort of pleasure Glorfindel would expect from his hard work. There was the dilemma-- to disappoint by voicing his concern, which would only serve to put it into Glorfindel’s head that he did something wrong, or to lie and keep letting him do what he was doing with the hopes that something would stimulate Fingon. In the end, he did not need to do either. The anxiety crept up, and as was often the case, his bladder caused him discomfort. “Sorry, Fin, darling… sweetheart,” he added as he very carefully managed to extract himself with a hand on Glorfindel’s head, while twisting away from Erestor’s grasp. “I need to, uh, make water,” he said, because saying ‘piss’ at that moment seemed very unromantic. “Sorry,” he added again as he awkwardly detangled from the blankets and his lovers, and half crawled down to the end of the bed so that he would not need to disturb them too much. He gave what was in his estimation an extremely pitiful smile and went not to find the basin under the bed for emergencies, nor to the toilet closet a few doors down, but retreated all the way down to the main level to use the bathroom there.

It seemed to take forever to tend to nature, and once finished, Fingon was slow in washing his hands, and scrubbed his arms up to his elbows without even thinking about it. He sighed and pulled on a robe that had been hanging on the back of the door. “Good job, idiot,” he said as he caught his reflection in the mirror. The thought of going back upstairs seemed a little unsettling; his pace slowed as he reached the bottom of the steps. He looked up the stairway, frowned, and sighed. “You are not going to run away again. Not tonight,” he coached himself as he gripped the banister. He cleared his throat and looked upwards. “Does anyone want something to drink?” he called up. “I think I need some tea.”

“No,” came the reply. “Come back up here? Just for a little while. Then we will both join you.” It was Erestor’s voice that spoke, friendly and inviting.

Frozen for a moment, Fingon tightened his hand on the banister. The trek seemed high; the stairs appeared steeper than usual. “Suck it up, moron,” he muttered to himself as he took a deep breath and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Halfway, he paused, his stomach still upset and he swallowed down whatever burned in his throat and dared attempt a reappearance. Somehow, he made his way to the top, and down the hallway, and outside the door. He peeked around the doorway, hands gripping it. He bit his lip, and offered a very sincere, “I am really, really sorry,” as he remained for the most part still in the hall.

“Why are you sorry, love?” Glorfindel asked, holding out an inviting hand.

“I did not get to cuddle with you,” Erestor complained. “Not really. I just hoped to have that for a few minutes? Please?” The two of them had talked very softly while Fingon relieved himself. Glorfindel understood what his mistake might have been, and agreed that reassurance was more important than anything else. Plus, they were not lying. It had all ended a little too soon.

“I might need--” Fingon covered his mouth with his hand as he belched, and made a face at the burning sensation in his throat. “I might need to use the toilet again.” He turned his head as another, slightly quieter belch issued forth. What he did not do was actually move into the room. “My apology is for being Valinor’s most defective homosexual. I am clearly failing at being gay,” he tried to joke, but the words came out sounding disapproving. “You know, I tried being straight once. I sincerely tried, and I sucked even worse at that if you can imagine.”

“Fingon?” Glorfindel asked quietly, wanting to ensure he had his attention.

Fingon shut his mouth and nodded as he looked at Glorfindel. His back was starting to hurt from the position, so he took a step in, still half in the hallway.

“Please, tell me the truth. What do you need most from us right now, even if it is to leave you alone? This is not… please do not feel that this is some kind of performance. We only want to love you. Help me know how?” The words tumbled out as the begging they were meant to.

Fingon wrung his hands while Glorfindel spoke now that the panel of the doorway was not there to hold onto. He looked at Erestor for a moment, back to Glorfindel, to the floor, and then to Glorfindel again. “I think I need something like tea to settle my stomach, and then I would like to be here or somewhere snuggling with both of you, but if I crawl into bed with you right now I think I might vomit. Not due to being in bed with both of you -- just because my stomach is upset.” The words were so quickly pieced together that it was difficult to tell where some started and others stopped, but the meaning was apparent.

Erestor launched up first. “I will put on the water,” he announced, grabbing for his robe, and giving a smile and a caress to his cheek as he passed Fingon at the doorway. 

Close behind came Glorfindel, who did the same, except he remained at Fingon’s side and had his robe in hand as well. “Walk with me. Deep breaths. We will go outside; the cool air always helped me a little when I felt ill. It will take Erestor some moments to heat the water enough. If looking down causes you to feel ill keep looking up; I will guide you.” When Fingon moved a little bit, Glorfindel smiled shyly. “I love you,” he added.

“I love you, too,” Fingon replied, and he took a moment to lean into Glorfindel and embrace him. “Are you sure we trust Eres alone with a cooking thing?” he attempted, but his jokes still seemed off.

“No, we do not, but he knows which pot to use in case he manages to burn the water,” Glorfindel returned, rubbing his back in a manner he hoped was soothing. “If we are very lucky you will feel a little better before he begins selecting teas.”

Fingon nodded and kept hold of Glorfindel’s hand. “Lead on,” he encouraged.

Carefully they stepped down the stairs and out the door, strolling into the ocean mist that permeated the air once darkness fell. “I apologize if anything I did caused your nausea,” Glorfindel began. “It was explained to me that I might not have chosen what would please you best, by way of my attentions. I will learn. Thank you, for the encounter. I hope you understand how privileged I feel to have had such an occasion with you.” The hand holding his squeezed a little tighter. He grasped in his memories for what he might say, a story he might tell, that could put his lover more at ease.

“No, you did not cause this,” Fingon whispered. In the dark, with the calm, cool breeze, it seemed a little easier to speak. “I left because I could not find my voice. You might find it strange, but I was pleased with what you did -- I just knew I was not going to be able to please you. It was not going to do anything,” he said scoldingly, motioning toward his crotch. “I was just going to lie there, you were going to try your best and probably sprain your jaw or something.” Fingon rubbed his face with his free hand. “It was… emotionally pleasing, even if it was physically and psychologically… unattainable? And then I really did have to pee, and I thought, well shit, if you suck too hard you were going to have a mouthful of piss, and I had to go. I got sick once I was downstairs, because then I thought, well fuck, I just fucked that up.”

“But you did not,” Glorfindel said, stroking his arm. “You did not, at all. It is all right if I do something and you cannot get off. There are times the pesky things do not cooperate. All that matters is that it felt good to you. Next time I will listen more carefully and let you direct me to what I should focus on. I know this will sound perhaps incomprehensible to you but… that you would let me even try… uhm…” he felt himself blushing. “I really liked being allowed to do that. I mean, I, uhm… I think I like them as much as you do not and…” He laughed. “Why does this feel so awkward? I guess it does not matter. But… you felt wonderful and… thank you and… oh fuck it, can we go pick out tea before I turn crimson?”

“But you are so pretty when you blush,” countered Fingon. He squeezed Glorfindel’s hand and stopped their strolling by pulling Glorfindel around to face him, and he kissed Glorfindel’s brow. “I enjoyed being with you, in what way I could. It was nice to pretend that… well, now you have me blushing,” he realized. “Tea sounds lovely,” he decided, and they began to walk again. “What you said about penises… what you and I have with that reminds me of how Turgon and I were with eggs. I would have a hard time deciding which I would less want to have in my mouth -- eggs, or a penis. Turgon loves eggs. When we were children, we would scrape them off of my plate onto his when we thought no one was looking. Now that I think about it,” mumbled Fingon, “I have a lot of things I do not like. That makes you and Eres even more special, because I like both of you a lot.”

“You have no idea how flattered I feel,” Glorfindel smiled a little giddily. “I mean, not that Turgon, er… shit. You know, I try, but somehow the word ‘Turgon’ may always have the power to steal away anything resembling lust,” he frowned. “The Gondolin thing… it is hard to ever completely forget.”

“Oh, damn. You realize, the trouble with me never experiencing Gondolin, and only seeing a few paintings of it, is my perception of Turgon is only as ‘my little taller brother’. I suppose referring to him as Turukáno or ‘that tall mother-fucker’ is not going to help?”

Glorfindel smiled. “It is challenging to move beyond the fact that at one time, being who and what I am would have earned me a painful death at his command. And what did happen to Eres, when he tried to protect me from being found out. Beaten bloody, and me forced to have been the one to do it lest worse happen to both of us. Fortunately it is a distant memory but…” he shrugged. “It is not that there are still hard feelings. There are not. It is just a tiny thing that may never leave the back of my mind, if that makes sense?”

Confusion was etched on Fingon’s face. “What are you talking about? Did you try to leave the city? I know how adamant he was that everyone had to stay there. Shit -- this was not because of me, was it? When I became King, I asked Gildor once to try to extract Erestor, and whomever else as well -- you, your families there. Does this all go back to me?” he asked.

“Um, I do not see how it can be? This all happened when your father still ruled. The first time was this stupidity that came up at a time Salgant and his cronies were determined to make Erestor’s life hell. But the second time… Turgon called us all into a meeting, and said that he knew one of us was involved in unclean relationships. At the time I was carrying on with Gildor. I thought we had been discreet but… it does not matter. Erestor stepped forward to accept the blame, and I was the one commanded to administer fifty lashes to him. It… this is still a difficult memory, because he bore the burden of my cowardice. To save me. It was… awful. There is more but that is the gist of it.”

Fingon listened intently to the tale, both hands covering his mouth for most of it. When Glorfindel finished, he pulled him close and embraced him fiercely. “When I hear these things, it reminds me that it was not only the kinslayers who were beyond cruel. So this all goes back to that bullshit idea he let Aranwë talk him into,” realized Fingon as he stroked Glorfindel’s hair and held him. “Did you ever meet Aranwë? Or his equally delightfully misguided son, Voronwë?”

“Maybe a few times? Aranwë, I mean. I knew Voronwë a little better but we were not… I did not know him terribly well. Not someone I crossed paths with much, is what I am trying to say. And let us go back inside, if you feel up to it? I detect a story best heard over tea and we should make certain Ress is not burning the water.”

“Burned water is the worst,” Fingon agreed. They had meandered around the yard, but not too far from the house. A few moments later, Fingon was opening the door. “After you,” he said, holding it open.

Glorfindel slid past him with a caress that started at his shoulder and traveled his sleeve to his hand. “Erestor, how is it going in there?” he called out.

“Um, I think the water is hot?” came the uncertain reply. Hurrying, Glorfindel saw the kettle beginning to violently spew little bursts of water out the spout. 

“Oh, good job,” he praised, hurriedly removing the obviously overfilled kettle from the heat before someone could end up with a flash-burn from the steam or the water. “Does anyone object to something with ginger in it? I thought that sounded nice.” He hesitated, looking at the medlar paste. “I am not sure whether I should mention that these fruits are recommended for dietary discomforts. But, they are. And I will leave it at that.” Soon enough, a large teapot was steeping on the table and Glorfindel held out chairs for Fingon and Erestor. Then mugs, and finally he seated himself next to Fingon, leaning toward him. “So...Voronwë. Aranwë. Do tell.” Erestor arched an eyebrow, but waited for Fingon to speak.

“Asshole, and father of asshole.” Fingon played with his mug and filled in Erestor on the discussion on the lawn, editing out the exact details he had learned from Glorfindel so as not to trigger Erestor. “So I suppose my brother’s name is akin to a cuss word for both of you. And… I love my brother, paranoid though he is at times. He was quick to buy into conspiracies and things like that. Finrod was good for him; I do not agree with everything Finrod says, but Turgon would believe just about everything Finrod said, and that was better than when Aranwë was around, because then Turgon would believe everything Aranwë said.”

“Oh. So we have him to thank for our years of persecution?” Glorfindel asked.

“Aranwë gave Turgon a bunch of crazy ideas when Turgon was in Nevrast and building Gondolin, but once Gondolin was finished, it was Voronwë who stayed there; Aranwë went off to annoy someone else. Considering I was not there, I only get gossip and hearsay, but Voronwe gathered supporters of those ideas and he managed to keep convincing Turgon it was what the people wanted. Some of the stories I learned later in Valinor; most of them came during the whole ‘dark days of Gondolin’, back when Gildor would sneak people out of there when he came to make deliveries,” explained Fingon. “Voronwë had some secret society thing going on there, and that was part of the tale that Turgon did not even know about at the time. If they felt there was some matter that my brother could not adequately control, they would take it upon themselves to simply resolve the matter in their own way. They allegedly planted evidence of false crimes, paid people to witness things they did not, and they even took credit for burning something down. I think it was a manor of one of the Lords of Gondolin - I really hope it was not one of your houses,” he suddenly added. 

“No. But it was someone’s we called a friend,” Glorfindel recalled bitterly. “Duilin.”

“Oh. Well, shit. I did not realize he was the one being targeted,” said Fingon. “I have a lot of issues with Duilin and Salgant, but if anything they deserve bad reviews and food poisoning. Burning down an estate is taking something quite to the extreme. However, the apple clearly does not fall far from the tree. When Voronwë was born, Aranwë took Maedhros and I aside and told us we were no longer welcome at his home because we might scare the child, or influence him to be something unnatural.” Fingon turned the mug in front of him around in his hands. “I had fewer encounters with Voronwë. The one that always sticks out was not long after I managed to bring Maedhros back. Voronwë was with some friends. They were not children, but not adults yet. It was very difficult for the children who crossed the Helcaraxë, so we generally let them get away with just about anything. I used to go back and forth between Maglor’s camp and my father’s camp, and I was in my father’s camp when Voronwë and two of his companions ran through the area. I was tired, I was sitting, I was in the way, and they nearly collided with me. They slowed a little, but only to shout things at me. I think Voronwë was the one who called me a faggot, and one of the others made a gesture and called me a cocksucker. I looked around, and these were children, where were their parents? There were other adults there, but all they did was snicker and get back to their business. I was not particularly saddened when Aranwë and his family initially went to Nevrast, and it did not break my heart to learn that Voronwë chose the hidden city. The effects of that, though, were more than I could bring change to. And here we sit,” Fingon added as he looked around. “Here, where Voronwë’s son Ilfrin was once the minstrel and loremaster, and told the tales of Gondolin in that great room by the fire.”

“I find that… disturbing and yet satisfying,” Erestor said, deciding it was safe now to pour out the tea. He served Fingon first. “I will let you know if I settle on one conclusion more than the other. Maybe that is one of the more intriguing aspects of our existence,” he opined. “If one of us is an ass, the rest of us have basically forever in which to ponder it.”

“I am not saying all of that in utter defence of Turgon -- I just think he was taken advantage of. He lost his wife because he followed me over the Helcaraxë. I failed to save Elenwë when she was practically next to me before the ice cracked, but I risked my life to travel through unknown lands to find and bring back Maedhros. Turgon was, and probably still is, bitter towards me about that.” Fingon shrugged. “Turgon adored Elenwë, and she was very sweet on him in her own way. If it was not for Idril, Turgon would have gone completely mad after Elenwë was lost. I suppose we are most fortunate to be given second chances at happiness through rebirth.”

Glorfindel blushed a little. And sipped his tea. “I am glad you are telling me this,” he finally spoke after a few moments’ reflection. “A little part of me always wondered how Turgon could do that. Because it hurt, so much. And I have wondered for a long time whether whatever let him be that person in the first place was still there. I am hearing from you that it never really was, and while it may seem a strange thing to say, I feel more at peace with the idea of him now than I ever have. Though, I am speaking only for myself.”

Erestor kept his silence, ignoring the unspoken invitation to add to the topic. “I am going to sleep well tonight,” he commented, changing the subject entirely. Glorfindel had known him for too long to believe it was other than deliberate, despite his airy tone. “This tea was a very nice idea.” Reaching across, the dark ellon lightly covered Fingon’s hand with his own.

Fingon smiled and nodded. “If I did not have that meeting tomorrow, I would just sleep in and stay here all day. I already told two people I would see them in the morning, so I am stuck with that responsibility.” He used his free hand to lift his mug. It was obvious that Erestor wanted to change the subject, and a summary of the future meeting would provide that. “Quennar wants us to catalog all of the archives in the library, but he wants to keep the archives in the building where they currently are -- and that part, the location of storage, is fine by me. What I do not appreciate is how he apparently thinks we have time for this project. He has more actual librarians than we do, but when he brought it up to the headmaster of the school, his words were something about how I have a hundred people working in the library.”

“We have nineteen,” cut in Erestor in bewilderment.

“Yes, exactly! And most of them are just interns with no archival experience. The rebuttal to that was that they would gain experience in doing this,” said Fingon, to which Erestor groaned mightily. “I know! So I went to the archives on a day when Quennar was off, and there were four people working, though working is a bit of a stretch. Two of them were sitting at a desk looking through an ancient scroll of plant identification and laughing at the erroneous captions, while another was writing out their market list, and the fourth was sitting in a chair, feet propped in another, asleep. And yet I casually make the comment to Quennar a few days later that perhaps he needs to try with his own staff first and create a schedule with goals for completion of this project, he answers me with how busy his staff is, and I am not a ‘team player’ -- I mean, what the fuck? So tomorrow morning, Quennar and I are having a talk with the headmaster there, and I swear, if I am told I am required to do this with my staff, I will quit. And that is not some idle threat - I came home by way of the entertainment district, and I saw postings for stable help at three different places, and another looking for a cook -- all jobs I am capable of doing and would cause far less headaches than the foolish things Quennar wants done.”

“Better you than me,” Glorfindel smiled, pondering his blessings in more or less being self-employed. “That sounds more tedious than medlars.” He ignored that Erestor glared at him, pretending he had not noticed the scowl in his peripheral vision.

“Which one is tedious - cooking or taking care of horses?” wondered Fingon. “I prefer libraries because they tend to have less person-to-person interaction, but I feel like neither the horses nor the food will talk back or argue.”

“Horses smell out a lack of enthusiasm, quite literally. You might regret the choice and so will the equines. At least, that would be my advice to you unless you can muster far more of a phlegmatic outlook. Personally, I would prefer the horses; I find them soothing. Just spending time around them used to calm and nurture me. I cannot say the same for pots and pans. But wait; you ride. Surely I am stating the obvious?”

Erestor nodded morosely, recalling the memories, which caused a chuckle from Glorfindel.

Fingon sipped his tea again. “I suspect I will be able to successfully make my case - if not, guess what, Erestor? I have a whole building full of old shit no one wants to throw away that you get to catalog. Honestly, though, it does make me wonder just what I would do if I did not have a library willing to take me on.”

“Erestor is used to shit,” he shrugged, carding his fingers through his silken dark hair, chary of the proposed task, which sounded both dismally dirty and appealingly alone, all at the same time.

“I guess I could always resign, stay here, and help with things at home. Not sure if you remember, but I initially took that position so that I could be useful and supply income while we fixed this place up. And so that I was not just here in the house all day. Which was going to become a… school or something, you know, Eres, we never really had a chance to discuss what your vision was with this place,” realized Fingon. “This is a huge building, and you could do any number of things with it, and we probably should do something, but at the same time, I know I have become spoiled with it. I am not sure how I would feel about sharing it with other people.”

“Neither do I,” Erestor answered, now folding his hands around his tea mug. “I think I lost focus about those plans, because so much… my personal life has had some downs and ups. I have been distracted for some time now. I would need to reflect a while, to give a decent answer to that.”

“I would never turn down the chance to be with you both all the time,” Glorfindel said. “But… the income. The things I make and sell are inadequate to keep us at our present standard of living. It would mean we would either need to become more self-sufficient and economize quite a lot, perhaps even raising far more of our own food, or maintain the status quo. Or, hatch some entirely different plan for our household. I do not think Ress and I have ever been shy about taking on new projects. Come to think of it, perhaps we start in on new plans with more eagerness than sense, sometimes.”

“The two of you? Nooo…” Fingon could not help but let his gaze wander to the half-finished medlar project. “You know, I do find that endearing about the two of you,” he said, focusing on his mug again. “You both plunge right in together, with enthusiasm and interest. I am fearless about a lot of things, but I still need that planning element. I like my lists, as you both well know. Goals. Little goals to get to those goals. Littler goals to break down the little goals. I think part of what the two of you have is simply, you are best of friends. No one can deny that, and… oh, shit,” he scolded himself as he blinked away a few threatening tears. “See that? The two of you and your cuteness, making me all teary-eyed.” He regained control of his emotions after a moment. “I must seem like the grumpy one compared to the two of you, with your antics and your inside jokes and snickering and laughing about things.”

He swished his tea in his mug and took another sip, getting to the dregs. “When I was competing, I moved around a bit from gym to gym. In the early years, I would see teammates that had a partner to practice with, a close friend, and at first I thought that would be nice. Someone to complain about things with, and spend time outside of the gym with and all of that. I saw too many people traded or injured and dropped from teams; there were too many friendships broken apart. So then I thought, lucky me I never had a best friend to worry about. But now I see the two of you, or I watch how my son and Elrond interact, or our little intern trio that I swear are never going to graduate because they just plan to work together as interns forever, and I think, maybe I should have taken the risk. It seems nice. I mean, clearly, we all have something we share, but what the two of you have is this other sort of bond.” Fingon gave a little laugh and shook his head as he looked into the bottom of his cup. “I suppose what I mean is, you can have more than one lover, but you can only have one best friend.”

Glorfindel felt a crushing band of anxiety and hurt encircle his chest on hearing those words. In a fluid motion, he pushed back his chair, hand clapped over his mouth, and ran from the room while Erestor cringed. He moved so quickly, there was no time to intervene in any manner. An expletive or two wanted to come out, but Erestor suppressed those, hoping that if he blinked a few more times maybe, somehow, none of that would have just happened. Most of all, he did not want to have to explain to Fingon, if only because there were times he was not certain he completely understood himself. He sipped his tea, because it still might go away. Just like the sun might forget to rise tomorrow.


	3. Before This River Becomes an Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three images in this chapter. Since the alt text does not seem to work for them, captions have been placed underneath (all beginning with the text IMAGE CAPTION) to provide description of the images for those who are unable to see them. Thank you.

“What the fuck did I say?” Fingon looked around in disbelief. It was almost as if Glorfindel had vanished, which was practically what had happened. “Am I missing something? Are you not best friends?” He shoved his mug away. “I should have just stayed down here,” he said. “I always say something wrong. Fucking, stupid idiot,” he growled, and he hit the side of his own head with his palm before he rested his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. “I swear sometimes I am hurting the situation here more than I am helping.”

“Then you really are missing something,” Erestor countered, sniffing out a means by which he might actually help while yet keeping himself out of it.

“Damn right I am,” he responded. He shoved his chair back and it made an undesirable noise on the floor. “I thought everything was going well again.” Fingon stomped off in the direction Glorfindel had gone. He kicked open the bathroom door, only to find the dog curled up in a corner. As he continued down the length of the hallway, the dog followed after him, keeping a bit of distance.

Fingon stopped when he reached the door to the foyer. He would have heard the main door if it had been opened, and the third and fourth step squeaked, so there was no way for Glorfindel go upstairs without being heard. The foyer was most logical, so Fingon continued in this direction. There was no sign of anyone here, and Fingon listened a moment for any sound of movement. There was none, but there was a slight chill, just slightly cooler than the hallway, as if someone had opened a door and the wind invited itself in before it was closed again. The great room had doors leading out, two large doors side-by-side in fact, and Fingon made his way there.

He only made a cursory check of the great room before he went for the doors. They were closed, but from where he was he could tell they were unlocked. Fingon swore under his breath. The robe he wore was not very protective, and the short time spent outdoors earlier still made him feel chilly. But Glorfindel was out there, and it was his fault, and he went out despite the barked warning from the dog. The wind provided a sudden rush of cold, and almost caused Fingon to change his mind, but he pressed on, closing the doors behind him. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked around, seeing no one. “Fin?” he called out, certain it would not be that easy to locate him.

Glorfindel had run into the stable, where he immediately sat on a stool near one of the stalls, giving way to the hoarse sobs he had suppressed. His face remained buried in his hands. Even when the equine occupant trod near to nudge at his golden hair with twitching lips and a whicker, he remained unresponsive. There was too much recrimination in what he had just heard. He had not meant to come between Fingon and Erestor, but obviously he had. Worse yet, he felt… put in his place. Tonight his heart had felt so open to Fingon, so grateful. Was he seen as someone only good for one kind of role? He thought and hoped that one day his ties to Fingon would be as comfortable and as natural as what he shared with Erestor. Except Fingon did not want a best friend. Or if he did, it would not be him. Everything felt wrong now. He felt wrong now, and wondered if he was interfering with something he had no business disturbing. The thought that perhaps he should have fought to stay at Elrond’s drove at him. He wailed his despair, and cried harder at the thought of more loss.

Fingon made an attempt to pull the robe tighter, but it seemed to him that the more he tried, the more the wind whipped around him in an attempt to force it off. “You are a pervert,” he declared to the wind as he walked around the property barefoot, sticking his foot into a puddle of mud at one point. “Lovely,” he said as he scraped his foot over the grass to rid himself of some of the muck. “Could be worse. Could be dog shit.” He spun around now and then as he walked and called out for Glorfindel, teeth chattering as he reached the place where the crops started. There was no sign of Glorfindel there, nor at the hot spring. “Fin?” Fingon paused to listen. There was the stable, and the shed. If Glorfindel was there, he probably wanted to be left alone. Fingon was more concerned about the woods. There were hounds outside to keep track of the chickens, but all three were near the coop, warily watching. Unlike the dog in the house, none of them were particularly interested in anything beyond their job of keeping Erestor’s poultry safe, so Fingon did not bother to figure out if they knew where Glorfindel had gone. Instead, he trudged through the yard, still calling out for Glorfindel, going beyond the structures and heading into the woods that they did not often traverse.

[IMAGE CAPTION: A dark forest with a path winding through it. There are tall, bare trees on either side, and the path is made up of a system of steps, created with dirt and wooden trunks that have been squared off, but have weathered over time. There are some patches of frost speckling the ground.]

A few steps in, Fingon stepped on a pinecone and let out a snarled phrase that contained four, five, and seven letter words not suitable for children. At least it was the same foot with the mud he reasoned as he kept going. He stumbled over a fallen branch, unseen in the darkness. This disturbed some bats, who swooped and chirped as they flew off to another part of the woods. “Fin? I really hope you are not out here, Glorfindel.” A dewy cobweb caught the side of his face, and he batted it away, and shook his hand as the angry eight-legged resident was spotted on his wrist. “Sorry,” he muttered as the spider righted itself on the ground and crawled under a pile of leaves. These movements left the robe open, and the chill ran through him. “Please, Glorfindel, if you are out here, can we talk about this? I have no idea what the fuck I did wrong.” He stopped, looking around at the trees that surrounded him. “I wish I knew what you wanted… I wish I knew what I had to do…” Fingon’s shoulders slumped. “Do you just… want me to leave?” He had still not heard anything, so he had no idea if Glorfindel could hear him or not. “Please, at least, go back inside. I promise… not to bother you.” Fingon walked a few paces to a spot on the ground that looked relatively dry and sat down with his back against a tree. He looked up at the few stars he could see through the trees. “I have no idea what to do,” he said, though this he did not shout, and a moment later he closed his eyes.

Glorfindel gradually shed the keenest of his emotions in tears, and now did not know what to do. Or believe, or feel. He tried to override ideas that told him he should climb onto the horse and leave, because they probably lay in some kind of unsound reasoning. And yet they were the loudest and most difficult to ignore. “No,” he whispered, defeated. “I left once. I promised my loyalty to them and even if I never leave this stool, I am not leaving here. This is the end of your road, Glorfindel. There is not anywhere else. If Fingon does not want you as a best friend, then force a smile onto your face and accept it. He took you back. Forgave you. The rest has to not matter.” 

The horse whinnied demandingly and nudged again at the golden head, but received no attention for his efforts. Bored, the equine stepped back toward his hay rack to nibble on his fodder.

“See? Even you understand that I am not really good for much.” He shook his head forlornly, annoyed and ashamed at his own words even as nothing was going to stop them from being uttered.

Only the wind could be heard, and Fingon found that he was so cold he was beyond feeling the cold. His fingers and toes were stiff, and he opened his eyes a moment only to close them again. Erestor’s words were haunting. Clearly, there was something he was not understanding. Fingon shook his head. Maybe he did not deserve this -- any of this. Maybe this was just the epilogue of his life -- one last twist of the knife for his part in the kinslaying. Happiness seemed so close, and yet, unattainable now. “I fuck up everything,” he mumbled to himself. Louder, shouting hoarsely, he called out, “You win, Glorfindel. I have no fight left in me. I will go… in the morning.” He swallowed hard and sighed. Everything truly seemed to be going so well. Tears pricked at his eyes again, but he was too tired to cry. For the second time in not so many years, even life seemed too tiring.

“Fingon?” Erestor called as he walked toward the woods. He had pulled on his boots, and dressed warmly. Thrown over his shoulder were two heavy cloaks, and one hand held the lantern-pole. “Káno, please? It is too cold out here. If you do not answer me I shall wander in search of you all night, and then I really will do a shitty job on your cataloging.” Variations on this call were made on a fairly regular basis. “Káno?”

“I know where I am,” he called back. “Please, find Glorfindel first. He has been out here longer.” No amount of self-pity was going to stop him from keeping Glorfindel safe if he could. “Or, he might be in the stable or maybe he had enough sense to go back to the house already. I would not know,” he continued loudly. “I am an idiot who sits in the woods without any drawers on.”

“Put this on,” Erestor said worriedly, wrapping him in the cloak. “Please go to him. I already know where he is; I could have helped you. But I cannot help him. Only you can do that. He would not be able to listen to me. In the stables, he has been crying.” He took Fingon’s hand and pulled him as gently as he could. “I hope you can forgive him. He hides it well, but he is still afraid of so many things. Fin panicked, at what you said. He thinks you meant that you want to keep yourself at a distance from him, and push he and I together. You cannot know how badly he wants you, how much he has begun to love you.”

“What? No… that is ridiculous! I mean… I did things tonight that… you and I have not even… shit.” Fingon pulled the cloak tighter, teeth chattering. “The stables?” he finally registered.

“Yes. And be prepared for him to pretend that nothing is wrong and that he just needed air or some bullshit like that. I have, as you pointed out, known him for a long time. He can become very fatalistic, and then try to bury whatever nonsense he has gotten into his head. Glorfindel will sacrifice everything for those he loves, but he does not always think clearly and is easily hurt. It was not your fault. This just happens, sometimes.”

Fingon nodded to everything that Erestor said as he trudged to the stable door. He took the other cloak from Erestor. “You should get back inside, though,” he suggested. “The winds are changing and I suspect frost in the morning. No need for all three of us to be in a miserable state,” he said, his hand on the door.

“I will make sure there is a decent fire,” Erestor promised. “And more tea.”

Again, Fingon nodded. “Thank you,” he added, and then he went inside. It was darker within; his eyes had adjusted to the starlight, and he found it more difficult to make things out after he closed the door behind him. At least he would know if Glorfindel bolted out while he was not looking. “Fin? Are you here?” He clutched the cloak to his chest as he carefully walked between the stalls. 

“Yes, sitting here,” spoke the voice that pretended cheer. “I hope I did not drag you out of the warm house? If I did I am sorry, I just really needed some fresh air.”

Fingon walked in the darkness until he found the source of the voice. He was relieved that Glorfindel had not been out in the woods, but knowing that he was the reason Glorfindel was here at all pained him greatly. “Bullshit,” he said softly as he held the other cloak out to Glorfindel. While he waited to see if Glorfindel would take it, he asked a question he did not want to, but felt he had to. “Do you want me to leave? And I do not mean the stable -- I mean, do you want me to leave and go away and not come back? I want a completely honest answer, because I am only asking once, right now.” He swallowed hard. “There is more I want to say, but I do not want that to sway your opinion.”

The question shattered Glorfindel’s rehearsed equanimity. His chin trembled, his eyes pooled with tears. “No!” he cried pitifully. “I am the one who should go. I never meant to come between you and Erestor. Please, I am so sorry. I will do anything, be anything you want me to, but please stay. Even if it means I should live out here. So sorry…” Tears began all over again, just as profuse as earlier. One hand reached out shakily, and loosely grasped Fingon’s knee in a gesture of pleading while the other covered his eyes.

“What are you even talking about?” Fingon sighed and shook his head as he shook out the cloak to his side and then draped it around Glorfindel’s shoulders. Once this was done, Fingon took hold of the hand at his knee, but once removed, he knelt down on one knee and kissed the back of Glorfindel’s hand. “Honey… if that is what you thought I meant…” He reached up with his free hand to try to wipe away the tears. “After what happened tonight, I felt so much closer to you. I felt like it was finally us, all three of us as us, not us like the two of you and sometimes Erestor and me.” Fingon took a shaky breath. “I am not even sure quite what I said wrong. It hurts me to see you like this and to know I did this, and I never meant to do this, but I did this. Please, honey, what did I say? What did I do?” He meant to pause and give Glorfindel a chance to talk, but blurted out, “I can try to be… you know, better in bed if that would help. I can… I mean, I can try. And if that is not it… I just feel like I really fucked up, and I can only guess what I did wrong.”

“Nooooo,” came out in something of a wail. Tipping off the stool, he clumsily grabbed at Fingon and ended up hugging his thighs, not his waist. Though, Glorfindel did not seem to care much, as he cried harder and buried his face against Fingon’s legs, tipping off of the stool. “I just thought...when you said about not having a best friend...I heard that you did not want me to be any closer to you and that I had taken over Erestor,” he admitted miserably. “I probably fucked everything up. I am still so afraid, Káno. Still feel like I do not deserve to be here, or have your love. But I do love you. So much. More all the time. I am…” Hot tears splashed down his cheeks. “There are times I do not know what I am good for.”

“You and me both, honey.” Fingon lowered himself to the ground and then pulled Glorfindel into his lap. “Sweetheart, that was not at all what I meant -- but at least I know what you were thinking, and I am so grateful that you are sharing that with me.” He rocked Glorfindel gently as he spoke. “I want to be closer to you, but I want to be closer to Erestor, too. Maybe I chose the wrong words. When I see the two of you, it makes me think, maybe I should have allowed myself a chance to develop friendships. I am not going to retract my comment that the two of you are best friends -- best implies the one that is above the others. Like, I am the best gymnast ever. Hmm, that sounded less conceited in my head… I guess that explains my trouble with friendships,” he added. “But a friendship is different from companionship. Friends are… I want to spend a few hours doing things that we both enjoy and making jokes no one else understands and… I guess whatever else friends do. Clearly, I am not a friendship expert. Companionship is I need to spend time with you, even if that means sometimes doing a thing that is not my favorite thing, but I do that thing because I need to be with you. Please, tell me if that is making sense or if I just made everything worse again,” pleaded Fingon.

“Makes sense,” Glorfindel said, sniffling but snuggling into Fingon’s hold as if he would burrow through him. “Want you to hold me. Want you to hold me and warm me.” He frowned. “Want us to be warm. It is really cold out here.” He sighed. “I owe you a better explanation, Fingon, unless ‘too sensitive and anxious’ needs no further clarification. Can we please sit in the hot water together? I could manage a better confession there.”

“We -- that is, you and me -- we need to talk more. The two of us. Do you realize that this is the longest period of time that we have spent together without Erestor since you came back here?” asked Fingon. “Erestor and I had many years to work on a relationship, and you and Erestor, while the road has been rocky, traveled down many of the same paths in your long lives. I want more with you, Glorfindel. I have all of these fond little snippets of memories with you from the past,” said Fingon as he nuzzled Glorfindel. “Do you recall the night at the King’s Kastle, when we danced? I do. I seriously considered stealing you away from Erestor that night. Seriously. I had a plan, all worked out. But I stopped myself, because all I could think of was that children’s story with the girl up in the tower and the prince climbs up by her hair, and then in my mind I was imagining Erestor scaling the theatre by your braids to come rescue you. Anyhow… I guess what I mean is, I am very fond of you, Glorfindel. And right now, I am also very cold. Extremely cold. The hot water is a great idea,” agreed Fingon, who wasted no further time, and still cradling Glorfindel, stood with him in his arms. “I am also really grimy right now. I probably should have warned you about that before I had you sit on me. I was out in the woods because I thought you went out there.”

“You went in the woods looking for me?” the blond sniffled once again. “Really?”

“Really. And I will do it every time you head off like that, just like I was tracked down earlier. I suppose that means we like each other or something.” Fingon kissed Glorfindel’s forehead. “I hope, though, that we can work things out to the point that we run to each other instead of away from each other.”

“I am so sorry.” Remorse lay heavily on his words, as they closed the distance to the thermal pool. He lowered himself carefully into the water that almost felt too hot against his chilled feet. When Fingon joined him, he continued his explanation. “I feel very bad, now.” A few more deep breaths came and went, as he held onto Fingon for comfort. “Stupid, even. There is this thing, about me. Maybe I am only realizing it just now, as I sit here and think about this. I am used to not being wanted. I expect rejection. I expect that given enough time, others will see something that makes me wrong or unsuitable or not good enough and push me aside. It is far too easy for me to hear my worst fears amidst innocent words. What I believed you meant hurt so much because of how wonderful our time together earlier was. Nothing ever seems to stay wonderful for me for long. And hearing myself say this, it sounds awful. Awful that I would think that of you. I can only offer that my weaknesses have nothing to do with you. This is all me. I try to fight the fears I have but sometimes…” he shrugged. “Well, you saw.” Silence fell for a few moments. “I will trust you more now. In here,” he placed his hand over his heart. “For what you said to me. And did. You are very selfless, Káno. I am grateful to have your affection.”

“You are not… required to trust me. I want to earn that. Everyone should have to earn trust.” He kept his arms around Glorfindel, skin warm from the water, soul warm from their contact and the truths spoken between them. “Each of us has our own challenges. I think I will be more coherent and philosophical in the morning, but I want you to know that I love you, but more than that, Glorfindel, I respect you so much. And I need you very much. I thank Eru for you, honey, more often than you know.”

“Why… why do you have to earn my trust?” wondered Glorfindel. “You have never done anything to wrong me. I have had only kindness from you. Why would I not trust you? Because I do. Trust you, I mean. I would do anything you asked of me.” He leaned his head down to rest it in the crook of Fingon’s neck. This felt like safety and security.

Fingon carefully chose his next words. The water was soothing and Glorfindel felt right in his arms. So right. Fingon sighed. “Because ‘kinslayer’ is just a fancy word for ‘murderer’, and there are days I feel I should not even trust me. People can change. They can change what they like, what occupation they hold, the hobbies they have… but no one can undo that. I just feel like… I expect that I should have to earn trust.”

“I do not think about it. I mean about you, and that. Um…” He scratched his head. “Can I ask you a question, about what you did?” When he saw Fingon’s nod, Glorfindel tried to choose his words carefully. “When you killed them… you just… killed them, right? Like, you did not torture them or try to make them suffer or… any of that? They just… died?”

Fingon took several deep breaths. “The first one was the hardest,” Fingon finally said, his voice trembling. Tears were already streaming down. “He was the youngest of them, and I remember his face. I came into it right in the middle. I hardly knew what was going on. I just took Maedhros’ word. I trusted him; he trusted his father -- you see where this is going.” Fingon took a moment to try to steady himself. “I had a sword; I had my bow. I had a knife, too. I started by firing arrows. I…” Fingon turned his head away, still holding Glorfindel, clinging to him. “I hurt a whole lot of people. I maimed… more than I will ever know, and others finished them off. And in the middle of it all, Celegorm called me a coward. So I dropped my bow and I ran into it. And the first one… the first one was so young. Maybe sixty.” Fingon shook his head as he sobbed his way through the recollection. “It was dark -- so dark. The Teleri were tired from the fighting already, and I came into it fresh. They hardly stood a chance. There were not many left, but…”

A gasp for air, a few shaky pants, and Fingon tried again. “I just ran at him, and I had my sword out, and it just… slid right into him. And we both just stood there, and… and I pulled the sword out, and it was like he just… exploded out onto the beach. It was just horrible, and I just stood there and he was screaming and… and I thought about hunting, and I would never leave an animal like that, so I took my knife, and I slit his throat. But it was not as if he just let me… he was struggling so much. His guts were… leaking all over, and I had to grab him by the hair to get the knife in.” Fingon shook so hard now that the water rippled around them, and it was Glorfindel who kept them afloat. “So… I just… I wanted it over, so I killed the rest that I saw. By then, there were so few left. There were three more. I just… I just…” Still holding onto Glorfindel, Fingon bowed his head, unable to stop crying, unable to speak.

The small encouragement Glorfindel had hoped to be able to offer Fingon would not matter against the horrors of his revelation. He realized this far too late, and searched for some words of comfort. “There are moments in time, and they can be so brief, but they change everything. They can end up defining everything that follows. I am so sorry, for what happened. I understand regrets, and mistakes. There will always be this sorrow for you, this awful memory. But I think you know, the lives you took are restored. Your repentance is obvious. I love you and I will do what I can to help you bear this difficulty. It took courage for you to tell me about this. You still have my trust, Káno. I see why you believe as you do but it changes nothing for me.” Closing his eyes, he swayed in the water, weaving in a gentle motion, holding his lover tightly. How he wished that he could take the burden for him.

Fingon managed a few nods, but most of his contributions to the conversation came in the form of whimpers and hiccups. His tears slowed, but he was still crying, and he buried his face against Glorfindel’s shoulder. Even if he had words, he could not have managed them at the moment, and so he took comfort in the fact that Glorfindel was still there, still holding him, and still loved him.

Glorfindel turned his head a little, just enough to begin placing small kisses against Fingon’s head, cheek, and ear. Morbidly, he could not abandon his original thought. That for all it was gory and indelibly horrible, at least the end came mercifully quick for those that had been Fingon’s victims. He thought of his own lingering death in Gondolin. How few knew or could have realized, that he had been painfully dying for years at the time he met his end. He envied those Fingon had killed; personally he would have appreciated such a death compared to the one he found. And still none of it mattered. Unthinkingly, his kisses continued as the memories of each agonizing breath returned to him. His hand lifted to stroke the side of Fingon’s head. This was grounding him, reminding him that the past could not reach out to claim him now. All that was over with, replaced by this fragile, beautiful chrysalis of the love growing between them.

The loving kisses caressing him seemed to Fingon more than he deserved, but Glorfindel’s words and comfort brought him calm. As the tears subsided and the tremors stopped, Fingon’s first thoughts were on how blessed he was. Here was a beautiful man, a man he was meant to be with, a man who loved him deeply, and who he loved without question. 

His second thoughts were unexpected. “Uh… Glorfindel… I…” Fingon shifted in an attempt to keep a bit more distance. “I have to tell you something,” he said rather suddenly.

“What is it?” Glorfindel asked, emerging from his reverie calmer and more centered. An extra nuzzle was given to Fingon’s cheek while he waited for the answer.

“Uh… that thing from before that I could not make happen…” Fingon cleared his throat, and then a moment later, added quickly, “I swear, this is not because of… I mean, from the discussion. This is not from the discussion. I think I just relaxed enough… and you were… touching my ears a lot…” he trailed off, cheeks turning red.

“Why are you embarrassed?” Glorfindel asked, stroking cheek, ear, jaw. “Káno, if you are aroused, enjoy it. Listen to your body. Let it find release. Would you let me kiss you?” he asked in a deepening voice. “It would be my privilege to return the pleasure I received from you earlier.”

Fingon reached out to run his fingers over Glorfindel’s cheek. He was so very tired, and drained, and yet it was obvious he would not sleep without relief from the sudden development. Instead of answering with words, he leaned forward and tentatively pressed his lips to Glorfindel’s. He continued, each kiss deeper, and he groaned as he accidentally brushed his erection against Glorfindel’s leg.

“If that feels good to you, baby, do it. Use me. Please.” Just then he remembered something about ears, and reached up to rub the pads of his fingers against the sensitive outer edges. The idea of knowing that he was pleasing his partner properly this time… well, he felt very good indeed.

A shiver coursed through Fingon from the manipulation of his ears, and once more he made contact with Glorfindel’s leg. “Not going to use you,” said Fingon, fast losing his ability to speak coherently, though now for an entirely different reason. “I want…” He kissed Glorfindel again, one hand still stroking Glorfindel’s cheek and neck, and the other rubbing circles on Glorfindel’s lower back. “I want you,” he admitted. “Too soon. Someday.” He kissed Glorfindel again, then moved to Glorfindel’s throat, more insistently kissing and nipping as he slowly rolled his hips as he had earlier that evening, only this time he was the one letting out little gasps each time he made contact with his partner’s flesh.

A drawn-out moan from Glorfindel betrayed that he was now immersed much further than only offering enjoyment to Fingon. Of course he was aroused by now, but it was an awakening of his mind and spirit as well. Hearing that he was fully desired by his lover, and knowing that this was not someone who would lie to him -- it was possibly the most erotic thing he had ever been told. The mere thought of being taken by Fingon at some future time caused him to throb with want. He could ease himself later; right now nothing meant more to him than his partner’s obvious interest and attentions. “Someday,” he managed to breathe in agreement. “Love you, so much. What you are doing. Yesss…” 

Normally Fingon prided himself in in his ability to prolong intimate encounters, but the unexpected desire was building. “We can… like before…” He found a way to brace himself against some of the smoother stones, then reached under the water and grasped Glorfindel’s hips to pull him closer. Fingon’s hands moved around to Glorfindel’s posterior, and he squeezed gently, kissed him again, and took a firmer hold, his eyes locked with Glorfindel’s. “I want you,” he repeated, then kissed Glorfindel with a great deal of enthusiasm. “I need you.” Once again, he locked lips, tongue mapping the curves of Glorfindel’s mouth. “I love you.” No kiss followed, for Fingon let out a grunt, his body insistent, his hands guiding Glorfindel so that they could both grind against the other, and now the percussive noises, gasps and loud puffs of air took over, words unnecessary. The entire time, Fingon watched Glorfindel, and his excitement increased to know that both of them were enjoying the encounter, without lies or compromise.

Glorfindel had one enviable attribute -- to live in the present moment during intimate encounters. Fully unaware of the outer world, he knew only the sensual immersion of their lovemaking. There had been a flicker of surprise, when his lover maneuvered him into the contact they had now, but that was only a fleeting thought. The heat of skin, and water, the noises that tore from deep inside each of them, and the building excitement that would not need much further before reaching its height. If one fuzzy goal existed, it was that he wanted to see Fingon’s satisfaction before his own. To look into those eyes glinting in the darkness and know that he was the means of the bliss written there. He would have to ask Erestor later about these ears, but for now, he continued to tease and rub at them with unrelenting focus.

So many things felt so good at the same time, and it was hard for Fingon to know exactly what felt the best. One blatant observation was that everything he felt was something good -- so good, in fact, that he was aware of being harder than he normally was on the rare occasions that he became erect. The sounds he made, noises he could not even give names to, were random and erratic, and one of his legs -- was it the left or right, and did it even matter? -- was stretched out and shaking a little, as if the excess desire needed somewhere to go and chose his foot. His hands moved back up to Glorfindel’s hips and he shook even more as his ears were played with again. He pulled Glorfindel painfully close, gritted his teeth, and rolled his hips several times until he felt a different sensation, the feeling of all of his passion erupting, and he moved faster, and harder, until he let out a grunt and spilled in the water against Glorfindel’s leg. His mouth was dry, and he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth and swallowed to alleviate the discomfort. Almost immediately he could feel his limbs growing tired again, but he held onto Glorfindel and pressed his leg forward a bit to encourage his lover to find his own release.

Understanding the silent invitation, Glorfindel pulled Fingon tightly against him. Already lost to the urgent rhythm of his building desire, his mind immersed in the awareness that the beautiful and sometimes impenetrable elf in his arms had found sexual satisfaction with him. Over and over those phrases swirled in his mind: ‘I want you,’ ‘I need you.’ They echoed in cascading patterns that took on a visual expression in his thought. One hand firmly but reverently held one of the firm buttocks within his reach. The other slid up his back, to press more of Fingon’s skin against him; seeking to drown himself in contact. He was so close. Then he stopped. “Just one kiss,” he begged, knowing instinctively that he needed this final reassurance. Fingon obliged. The moment his tongue entwined with its mate, a single roll of his hips triggered the surge of his climax. Helpless against the force of it, he poured all that energy and passion back towards Fingon in both satisfaction, and deep gratitude. Holding on, his heart thundering in his chest, lungs heaving for air in the aftermath. “You took all my fear and pain and transformed it into joy,” he whispered. “Thank you, for the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.”

Fingon kept one arm around Glorfindel in an attempt to help support him. Now that they were both spent, sleep was desirable, but the water was not the place for it. And yet, Fingon did not want the moment to end just yet. His other hand caressed Glorfindel’s cheek and lips. “I just thought of something we forgot to do,” whispered Fingon.

“What?” Glorfindel asked. 

Fingon smiled at the bewilderment in the beautiful blue-green eyes staring at him. “When we were all back together again, and you and I devised a plan whereby we both spent the day courting Erestor.” Fingon booped Glorfindel’s nose with his own. “We kind of forgot about each other,” he assessed. “Unless you would think it too juvenile now, and I guess we kind of put the cart before the horse tonight, but… it might be fun to court each other the way we both do with Erestor.” His words were obviously hopeful.

“You would want to do that with me?” The surprise and expression of interest tempered with caution was almost sad to behold. “Because if you did, if you did want that, I would really like it.” He visibly struggled, to keep a habitual fear out of his tone.

“Are you sure? You sound apprehensive,” noted Fingon with a furrowed brow. He lifted Glorfindel’s hand and kissed his fingers. “Please tell me what troubles you.”

“I…” Glorfindel dropped his head, but took courage from what they had just shared. “I struggle with believing I deserve any of this. There is a part of me that has been chained to a whipping post for a long time now, and does not know how to move away from it. That is why I was so quick, tonight, to hear something you never intended. I think it will take me awhile, to change those beliefs. There are…” He trailed off. “I feel so tired, and I do not want to ruin what happiness we had. Please? I will tell you anything you ask of me, but please, not now?”

With a kiss to Glorfindel’s forehead, Fingon said, “Then do not listen to my words. Understand me by my actions. I have one final question before we return to the cottage -- if we can manage crawling out of here; I admit that I am rather weak at the moment.” Fingon cleared his throat. “Do you prefer to be called Laurefindil or Laurefindë in Quenya, or something else entirely, or just Glorfindel? My preference is to speak in Quenya, but we seem to flow between that and Sindarin and random phrases in Westron at home, and yet when I write I have to write how I think, and I will always think in Quenya. I know what your father named you, but I am fairly certain you would not wish to be called by that name. I know ‘Fin’, usually, but… theoretically, if someone were to… send you flowers, what would you want to see written on the card?”

“Uhm, well, that is another thing, you see,” he said as a smile slowly crept over his lips. “Fin, or Glorfindel. Because when you came for me, I thought it would be you who had the most right to be called ‘Fin’ and that I would be given some pet name or other that was different than what Erestor always called me. Back to that thing about believing I do not deserve anything? And so when you called me ‘Fin,’ and took ‘Káno’ to yourself, it was like I received a present I did not expect. You do not know how special that was to me, though maybe you do now because I just told you,” he laughed, mostly at his own foolishness. “So I guess now you know why simple ‘Fin’ means the most to me.”

“Fin works for me. I know how to spell it,” he added with a little smile. “Hypothetically speaking of course.”

“I love you,” the blond said with one last hug and a chaste kiss on his cheek. “And now I will help you out of here.” With surprising agility, he climbed out of the pool, vapors rising all around his warm skin as he squatted at the edge of the pool and offered Fingon his hand. Taking a glimpse down, he noted with amusement that his penis had promptly shrunken in the cold to something resembling a large button, and therefore could not in theory offend his lover. “But do hurry up, it is not warm.”

“And I thought I was supposed to be the athletic one.” Fingon scrambled up out of the water with aid, and promptly grabbed up the cloaks and robes discarded on the lawn. “I still claim the middle of the bed tonight,” he declared as they headed for the nearest door.

“Hope you do not mind that I will want to snuggle and in general be your barnacle. Wait. That sounds so unromantic. Your um, well, your lover. But in the noun sense, not the verb sense. Because we both need to sleep.”

“Why do you think I am insisting upon being in the middle?” asked Fingon as they came back inside. “I want to snuggle, too, and we would risk smothering Erestor in the positions we are usually in.” Erestor, sitting at the kitchen table playing solitaire, looked up with mild concern at the very end of the comment he overheard. “You can play that four to the foundation,” remarked Fingon as he pointed to one of the cards and continued on quickly to retrieve towels for himself and Glorfindel.

  


[IMAGE CAPTION: The table with Erestor's game of card arranged on it. He is playing the Klondike version of Solitaire, with a desk that has borders of blue for the numeral cards and gold for the face cards and aces. The back of the cards display a blue border with a gold border within, and at the center, an artistic representation of a rayed sun. He has threes and an ace played to the foundation, and the cards are somewhat sloppily arranged.]

Glorfindel stood there, a little bashful, his hair dripping on the floor despite the effort he had made to wring it out on the way back. “Thank you, ‘Ress,” he said softly.

“For what?” the dark eyebrow raised, though he had a perfectly good idea. Old habits died hard.

“I think you know,” Glorfindel murmured. “At the very least I think you told him where I was. Maybe I will make this easier on both of us and just tell you that I am grateful for your love. And his.”

Erestor nodded, and gave a little smile. “I know.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” the blond chuckled.

“Loverboy. Catch.” Fingon tossed a towel squarely at Glorfindel so that even if he did not catch it, it would land on him. “I mopped that floor earlier,” he reminded him as he sauntered over, making quick work of drying his dark hair before he used his own towel to dry Glorfindel’s with a gentler touch.

“Sorry,” Glorfindel mumbled. “I tried not to make a mess and I will mop it again if you want me to. In the morning. Right now I am not sure I could lift the mop handle.”

Fingon dropped the towel loosely behind Glorfindel’s back and used it to pull him close so that they were face to face when Fingon stooped down. “It was a joke, honey. I did not mean for you to take that literally.”

“Shit.” Glorfindel laughed and shook his head. “I am a struggling literalist?”

“You are adorable is what you are, and you can take that literally.” He glanced at the game on the table and said, “Move the seven of hearts over there, and then you can move the eight to the foundation, and provided the other ace is not under that pile there, you should be able to win this game.”

“Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me you would like me to stop this and go to bed?” Erestor asked, sighing since now his game was rather ruined. “Because the game is called Solitaire for a reason. Not Polytaire.”

“No, I like winning, so I want you to finish, not stop. You can stop when you finish,” Fingon said. “Although, I like the idea of a game called ‘Polytaire’. Tell me more,” he drawled with a smirk.

“Polytaire is becoming Fuckitaire,” Erestor said, batting his long eyelashes. “Because the idea of cuddling in bed trumps winning a card game with myself. There. I won. Because I said so.”

“Huh. Well then.” Fingon reached over to the neatly organized game and began to flip over the cards that did not have their faces showing. He carefully selected three of them and laid them out on the table: The Cavalier of Diamonds, the King of Clubs, and the Cavalier of Hearts. He pushed all three cards together so that the edges were touching, gave a nod, and headed out of the room toward the stairs, whistling as he went.

[IMAGE SOURCE: The cards have been mixed up from Fingon flipping them over, and displayed on the table are three cards in a row: The Cavalier of Hearts, the King of Clubs, and the Cavalier of Diamonds, in that order. These are atop the other cards, of which some are face up and some are faced down.]

“He wants to sleep in the middle?” Erestor asked.

Glorfindel stared at him. “How are you so smart? Just, how?”

Erestor kissed him, winked, and sauntered up the stairs. “How are you so beautiful?” he called back.

Glorfindel bit his lip, and stared at the cards once more. He rather liked that he was the Cavalier of Hearts. Carefully he picked up the other two cards, and gave each of them a kiss before returning them to their exact places. He extinguished the candles and followed them to bed.


	4. You Mean Every Word You Say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image in this chapter is a letter from Fingon to Glorfindel. Since alt text is fussy here, the text of the letter is typed out in the end notes.

“Piece of shit obstreperous mass of semi-congealed cock-sucking uncooperative confection, you will not do this! Do you hear me?? I did exactly what I was told! There is no excuse for your behavior! Now act like you are cheesy or so help me, I will never squeeze your little assholes again!!”

The frustrated and extremely loud outburst caused both Erestor and Fingon to open their eyes at the same time. “I am so glad we do not have neighbors,” Erestor said, holding the covers up near his nose.

“Do you know that just last night he told me he had no ability with words?” Fingon murmured wonderingly, snuggling against Erestor’s warmth. 

Erestor had something of a different response, once he had another moment to think on what he had heard. “Oh no. I need to go to him. It must be the medlars. Something sounds wrong. He worked hard on this, and he never talks like that. At least, not usually to food.” He launched out of bed with a kiss to Fingon’s nose, grabbing around for some lounging pants and a robe. “Though, I do not know how much help I can be. We all know that all I can do is burn pots.” A pleading expression directed at Fingon accompanied that statement, as he sort of hopped out the doorway while still working his way into the clothing.

“The greatest gymnast of all time, to the rescue,” snorted Fingon, searching for his own clothes. But after last night, this could only end up as amusing--in his estimation. 

**

“It will not thicken enough. I have been here since before dawn and fuck it all, it is still THIS. That cannot be pressed into a mold, it will never set up!” he said to Erestor, even as he furiously stirred the deep red mass in the bottom of the copper pan.

“May I offer a suggestion, Fin?” Fingon asked, batting his eyes at the harried beauty.

“Throw it out the fucking door?” Glorfindel retorted.

“No, sweetheart. Reduce the heat, a lot. Close off most of the dampers for that part of the stovetop. That jam will reduce, but your arms will fall off if you keep on as you are. It just has to lose far more moisture, and not only will you frustrate yourself like this, if you so much as blink wrong it will burn.”

“Well I was trying to avoid that last bit,” Glorfindel said, but he reached for the hot pads and pulled the pan off of the heat, and did as was suggested. “Fuck,” he huffed, sitting down for a moment. “This was supposed to be so easy.”

Fingon kissed Glorfindel on the top of his head. “It still looks salvageable. Keep watch, stop stirring -- no touching!” he barked out at Erestor, who was peering into the pan.

Erestor lifted his hands up and stared at Fingon with large eyes. “I had no intention of touching! I was only looking,” he defended.

“Just… back up… a little more… there you go, right there. Look from there,” directed Fingon.

Erestor rolled his eyes, but he rose up on the tips of his toes in order to see into the pan. “What if we added--”

“No!” replied both Glorfindel and Fingon at the same time.

Fingon closed his eyes as Erestor grumbled and walked away. “Just give it a little more time. I would love to stay here and help, but--”

“You have a meeting. You should get ready for that,” suggested Glorfindel. “I think I can manage the medlars and keeping Erestor away from them on my own.”

“I heard that!” called out Erestor from the next room.

Fingon kissed Glorfindel atop the head again. “I will return as soon as I can.”

Glorfindel caught him by the arm, and smiled shyly. “I will let you go. Give me ten more seconds?” he asked, leaning up to kiss Fingon with a little flick of his tongue that asked for a deeper kiss. When he felt the mouth opening to yield to him, his heart soared. He balanced standing on his toes, holding the taller elf’s biceps. Deeply, passionately, he expressed his attachment, ending the kiss on a chaste note just before he pulled away. “I wanted you to know that I love you, Káno.” He bit his lip in that charming way he had about him when he felt uncertain. With a little smile he turned to see Erestor edging toward the pan, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“I love you t--- hey! Get away from there!” Fingon yanked the spatula from a cracked butter crock that served to hold all of the kitchen utensils. “Do not make me use this,” he warned as he waved it in Erestor’s direction. Erestor lifted a brow, midstep, and pulled his foot back to where it had been. “Good boy.” Fingon held the spatula out to Glorfindel as the dog raised his head and attempted to figure out what he had to do with any of this. “If he comes any closer, just swat him on the rear with this,” he advised, giving his golden lover another kiss before he walked to Erestor.

“You realize that is hardly a deterrent,” Erestor said as Fingon paused to embrace him. 

“Yes, but it will keep you from meddling with the medlars,” Fingon reasoned. He kissed Erestor, gave him a friendly pat on the behind, and then hurried off to freshen up and make himself presentable for his dreaded appointment.

*****

“Success!” Fingon came in through the kitchen doors, the only entryway left unlocked all the time on account of it being tricky enough to open that it hardly needed to be secured otherwise. “No archival work for you, Erestor, unless you want to be nice and offer your services. I will share the details over dinner.” He walked through the kitchen and hung his cloak before he returned. “I hope it has been a successful day here as well.”

“It was, and I owe it to Erestor,” Glorfindel beamed. “Well, and you, too. Your idea about the low heat started it, but Ress asked why not spread it much thinner with the spatula onto an oilcloth over a baking sheet, and thereby greatly increase the surface area? So we did that, and it dried beautifully. We folded it up and compressed it into blocks with the waxed paper. See?” He gestured to Erestor, who waited patiently, displaying a definitely rectangular block of medlar cheese for Fingon to see. 

“And then I suggested some more things,” Erestor smiled, bearing a neatly arranged tray. “Glorfindel and I made crackers. Or rather, he made crackers and I poked the little holes in them before they baked, just in case you were fearful. And we had some soft cheese. So you will be the first to judge our efforts. Because we think medlar cheese and cheese cheese sounds amazing.”

“Then it has been a good day all around,” decided Fingon. “That is some of the best hole-poking I have ever seen.” He picked up a cracker and popped it into his mouth. “They taste great, too. Should we eat out here, or elsewhere? And did you pick out wine, or should I go down and find a bottle?”

“Here, no, and yes,” Erestor answered promptly.

“This is why I hired him for my library,” declared Fingon as he went to the door that would lead downstairs. “He has all the answers.” He whistled as he made his way into the basement.

“When is he going to try the cheese?” Glorfindel whined, overly eager to have his creation sampled.

“As soon as he has some wine to go with it, obviously,” Erestor answered, struggling to not point out the joke that dangled temptingly.

The whistling came closer again, and Fingon emerged from the basement with a bottle of mead and another containing a cheerfully pink wine. “I could not decide, but then, I prefer not to decide when I can have both,” Fingon said as he set the bottles on the table and went to retrieve a corkscrew from a nearby drawer. “Do I have to wait until we are seated for dinner to try the cheese, or can I sample it now?”

“I think Glorfindel took exception that you favored selecting wine over his cheese,” Erestor smirked. “But now that there is wine perhaps there will not be whine.”

“Oh, very funny,” Glorfindel scowled. “Fine. Trample on my self-esteem.”

“I am just teasing you and you know it,” the dark one purred, snaking an arm around his waist. “Your self-esteem is just fine. Besides, you are cute. And cheerful. Charming, and eager. Full of innocence, in some ways, but--”

A groan was heard, as Glorfindel blushed crimson. Erestor smirked some more.

“Goodness, gorgeous, I just thought you wanted me to wait until supper,” apologized Fingon as he found glasses for their beverages. He approached Glorfindel and opened his mouth expectantly, like a baby bird awaiting a morsel.

“Just wanted to know if you thought it was any good,” growled the blond, darting filthy looks at Erestor, his cheeks flaming. Despite his unsettled state, he managed to spread some of the thick medlar cheese onto a cracker. He spread a second cracker with actual dairy cheese. Carefully, he slid the former into Fingon’s mouth, and stuck his tongue out at Erestor. “You, I have half a mind to spank,” Glorfindel pointed at Erestor. “But the problem is, to you that is not a threat so much as an encouragement.”

“Very nice,” complimented Fingon after he tested the fruit cheese he was given to try. “Mmm… you know how much I like cheese, and this is going to be on my list of favorites.”

“I thought it tasted like concentrated apples, with the spices already added,” Glorfindel offered hopefully. Erestor started to speak when Glorfindel silenced him with a waggling finger. “First I want to hear what he says. Before he hears what you think.”

“Well, it does have a fruity flavor,” agreed Fingon. “I was thinking pear a little more than apple, but it could be apple. I usually eat green apples, the tangy kind, so I can see how it would be more like a ripe, red apple taste. You did not add any spices to it?”

“No. Just lemon juice and a touch of honey.”

“I like it,” confirmed Fingon. He poured a small amount of wine into a glass for himself, swirled it, tested the bouquet, and took a sip. “I think this shall pair quite nicely with it.”

Erestor smirked again, disappeared, and reappeared bearing a large plate. “I made something too,” he announced.

“You what?” Glorfindel said, immediately afraid. Fingon, too, narrowed his eyes and held his wine glass protectively.

“Well, just give me a moment... I made something after you made something. Do you remember me asking you if you could please make some sandwich spread?”

“Yes, because I made it for you. You were very insistent that your garden herbs had to go into it.”

 

“That was because I wanted to make something for you both. And since we all know I cannot cook anything that tastes good, I thought that maybe I could just assemble something. So it is not really cooking. To go with your crackers and medlar cheese, these are cucumber sandwiches.” He looked down. “If you tell me these are a failure, I promise I will never try to make anything again. You can even call me a cucumber fucker.” He looked at Glorfindel with a weak smile, setting down the plate near the other items.

“Cucumber...fucker…oh. Ohhhhhh. The cucumber fucker. That fucker. Well. I kind of liked it when you were that fucker. I will try one,” Glorfindel said, chuckling. “Even if back then you did not let me fuck your cucumber.”

Fingon sipped his wine again with a slight smile and clear confusion in his eyes. “I need context, but all I can think of when you say ‘cucumber fucker’ is ‘pheasant plucker’, which likely means as little to the two of you as cucumber fucker currently means to me.”

“Well then, I propose that Erestor tell you the tale of how he earned that title, and then after you tell us about the pheasant plucker,” Glorfindel said.

“It will cost you,” Erestor said, still smirking at Glorfindel.

“Oh, what?” 

“That later on tonight my cucumber becomes very happy,” the dark one said innocently.

“Then I will willingly pay your price, if Fingon finds that amenable in the event he would like to participate in some fashion.”

“Of course.” Erestor nodded as if this was simply a given.

Fingon reached for one of the sandwiches. “So long as I am able to sleep more than a few hours tonight. I lost half a day’s work with that stupid meeting this morning, so I want to get in early tomorrow.” He sniffed the sandwich and then bit into it. “Also very good, both in the making and assemblage.”

“Really?” Erestor asked, unsure he was hearing correctly.

“Really,” Glorfindel echoed. “You sliced the cucumber perfectly, and they are seasoned just right, too. I am very proud of you, Ress. These are delicious.”

“Alright.” Fingon clapped his hands together once. “Food. Drink. Everyone sit down. I have been promised a story about either cucumbers or fucking or both, and whatever it is, I am sure to enjoy it from the expression on your faces,” he pointed out as he took a seat at the head of the table.

**

“...and so that is the story of how we fucked them with their own cucumbers, and I was dubbed the cucumber fucker. I still consider it a badge of honor,” Erestor concluded.

Fingon was already on his second glass of wine, but he believed he still would have been laughing just as hard had he been completely sober. “The more I learn, the more I feel the two of you have had an on-and-off feud with the two of them. It kind of reminds me of the exchanges Celegorm and I used to have.”

“I can only imagine the fun,” Erestor said drily.

“It actually surprises me that you did not notice some of the horrible things we did to each other back when Celegorm and I were children. Ah, but those are tales for another day,” said Fingon. “I have to share the news of my victory over Quennar today.”

“Now you have my eager ears,” Erestor said politely. 

Glorfindel, seeing that Fingon appeared to have space next to him, decided to take a chance and indicate that he would like to cuddle a little. Very happily, when he saw the arm lifted in invitation, he sat and rested his head lightly against Fingon’s shoulder. Erestor did not miss the look of delight on his fair face, and suppressed a grin. He did not want Glorfindel to notice, so he poured himself another half-glass of wine and waited for Fingon to begin.

“Quennar pissed me off right out of the gate. He arrived about a half hour late, which meant I had a lot of small talk to make with the headmaster,” explained Fingon as he rubbed his hand against Glorfindel’s shoulder. “When he arrived, he made it sound as if he was so very busy and we had to hurry the meeting so he could get back to his work. I will spare you the boring details of the different plans that Quennar had -- including the one where he wanted you,” said Fingon as he nodded at Erestor, “to be relocated to his department until further notice to work on this project. Full days -- but get this -- without additional compensation. So I listened to all of these bad ideas, and when the headmaster asked which of these four options I was most amiable to -- because I realized at some point that Quennar had already gone to the headmaster to make his case and the headmaster was apparently in favor of having me facilitate something -- I stood up and said we should go and take a look at the archives and see just what this would entail.”

Fingon reached for the bottle of wine and topped off his glass as well as the one Glorfindel had. “Quennar seemed confused, because he was certain I knew generally how big the archives were, but the headmaster had not been there. Can you imagine? So we all took a trip over to see it, and it could not have been any better. The sleeper was there, feet up, and snoring today. There was a trio gossiping and looking at a scroll that detailed the rules for a few simple parlor games, and the other one who was there was working on some needlepoint. The headmaster took one look around, pointed at the now waking archivist sprawled on the chairs, firmly said ‘You, sir, are dismissed, and as for the rest of you, get to work!’ and turned around to leave. But the priceless part came when Quennar asked if he could still have you come down half-days to help, and the headmaster said, ‘If you should decide to resign, perhaps I shall appoint him in your place’. So the end result is you get to stay in the library with me… and if Quennar should resign, and you are interested in the position, I already have some ideas on how we would reconfigure things so that we would still get to work together. Curiosity got the better of me when I left, so I stopped at the archives, and Quennar and his staff -- minus the napper -- were hard at work on the cataloging project. So, imagine that, actually working on a project leads to getting it done.”

“That is the sexiest thing I have heard in awhile,” Glorfindel admitted, finding himself feeling rather magnetized to the one next to him.

“That is worth another half-glass of wine. I am grateful for your machinations, Káno, because I wanted to do that about as much as I want… I do not know, a dental procedure,” Erestor noted. “Thank you. Really. I would have done what I was asked to, but I was not looking forward to that.”

Fingon swirled the wine in his glass. “The reason I went in early today was so that I could have time to myself to draft a resignation letter, just in case. I have since burned it; no need to have it sitting around so that someone could accidentally find it. If my plan had not worked and the headmaster had insisted upon one of Quennar’s follies, I was not going to stick around. And I suspect you would not have, either,” he said as he looked to Erestor.

“I would have followed you,” Erestor said simply, which was entirely true. “In such an event, I still would not have had to do the work.”

“See? Either way, I made sure you did not have to deal with that shit.” Fingon took a long, slow drink from his glass. “I suppose we can save the mead for tomorrow,” he realized, for the bottle had yet to be opened, though the wine was nearly gone. “Confectionary,” he said as almost an afterthought, but he offered no additional explanation.

“I find I am tired,” Glorfindel said, “and yet I promised you something, Erestor. Could I convince you both to join me upstairs, so that I have a chance of keeping my part of the bargain and finding sleep at a reasonable hour?” He took up their tray that had been quite emptied of its contents. One forlorn quarter-sandwich still remained uneaten on Erestor’s plate, and with a shrug Glorfindel popped it into his mouth as he waited for an answer.

“You really did like them,” the dark one mused. “Yes, I will join you. I will follow you and clean the glasses.”

“So my plan, had I found myself unexpectedly unemployed,” continued Fingon, whose mind was clearly still on the events of the morning, “was to start a confectionary in the room next to the kitchen. It has enough space for it, and compared to other food items, a lot of candy keeps rather well except in the hot months, but we could use the basement for storage. Also, the cost to make candy is rather low, but the return on the investment is quite good, and compared to other food, nothing… wait, no, I explained that part already,” he mumbled. “Just trust me,” he finally said. “If we ever need to, that is what we should do. Seriously, though, today made me realize that it might be nice at some point to find a way for all of us to…” He trailed off again and shook his head. “This is not a conversation that will end quickly, so perhaps for the sake of all of us, I will table it until tomorrow or the day after when we can discuss it together.”

Glorfindel leaned down to kiss him, eyes full of love and hands careful not to spill the items on the tray. Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen. Truth be told, all of this was inspiring a desire to paint, though he could keep his muses to himself.

“You should take the middle tonight, Fin,” suggested Fingon. “I should probably head up and make the bed,” he offered, and after downing the remainder of his wine, he briskly left the kitchen and headed up to the second floor.

“Why does he love us?” Glorfindel said to Erestor. “Conveniently, you and I always shared similar concepts of slovenliness. Come to think of it, I am not certain I even know how to make a bed properly.” He frowned. “Um, maybe do not share that with Káno.”

“I have no intention of outing you. Do you think I would fare any better?” Erestor chuckled, washing the glasses and placing them on a clean towel to dry. “I have often wondered the same. When it comes to fastidiousness, we cannot hope to match him. And, I am very much looking forward to having my cucumber gratified.”

“Yes. I do know how to peel your cucumber, do I not?” Glorfindel nipped him on the lip as he passed by. “See you up there.”

Fingon hurried to finish his work when he heard the first creaking of the steps. The bed was made -- not quite to his standards, but he had other work to do. There were rose petals (golden rose petals) strewn over the quilt and pillows, and numerous candles lit in various parts of the room. He had incense burning, too -- something labeled ‘passionate flames’, but mostly smelled of sandalwood and jasmine. His harp was already in the room; he planted it there early, before he left for work, and it was just where he left it, so he doubted there were suspicions while he was away. And then, there was the letter, in his hands, which he propped on the pillows where Erestor normally would have slept, but Fingon made sure to rearrange the pillows based on the plans for the night, and the envelope had ‘Fin’ written upon it, so clearly no one would mistake that. He retreated to the corner where his harp was and sat down on the chair he had placed there so that he could see whomever came into the room first.

Glorfindel stepped into the room and his lips parted at the unaccustomed sight and scent. Stopping a little past the doorway, he breathed in deeply. “A special treat?” he asked softly.

Fingon looked around the room a bit as well, as if some of it was new to him, too. “More like, I may not be the best when it comes to certain expected elements of intimate relationships, but as for the rest, I am a hopeless romantic.” He picked up the harp and positioned it on his lap. “I had this brilliant idea where I, um, I was going to write a song for you… I just have the melody right now; I still need to figure out the words. Um… I, ahm… I did, uh, write you something, though,” he said, and he gave a nod to the pillow on the bed, suddenly feeling shyer than he had in many ages. “So, with what you were saying, the cucumber thing and all… perhaps I might serenade the two of you for a bit, and then join you after the, uhm… you know, that part… when you reach the snuggling part, I could, uhm, join you then.”

Walking to him, Glorfindel bent down on one knee for a moment, and took Fingon’s hand to kiss his palm. “I love you very much, and want to please you. Please do not feel like you have to explain your desires. You are with me here.” He held his hand over his heart, before he rose, curious about the envelope. “Should I read it now?” he wondered aloud.

“That is up to you,” said Fingon quietly as he checked to see that the strings of his instrument were all still in tune.

“I want to,” Glorfindel said, walking to the bed. For the life of him, he had no idea what it could be. That brought both eagerness and trepidation. He gazed for a moment at his name on the letter, admiring that this was how it appeared in Fingon’s script, the writing of someone he loved and admired. Removing the letter inside, he took a moment to note the writing itself, now that he could see more of a sample. The letters flowed into words, and words into sentences. Surprisingly, the script appeared more elegant in his eyes than even Erestor’s, which was some of the nicest he had ever seen. By contrast, his own writing seemed childish and awkward in construction in comparison with either of his lovers. Only after all these aspects were noted did he turn his attention to what had actually been written. He turned his back to Fingon, unwilling to fish out his spectacles in plain view, slipping them on so he could truly read:

  
  
  


[IMAGE CAPTION: A two-page letter from Fingon to Glorfindel, on gold parchment written in green ink. The text is found in the end notes.]

 

The glasses were slipped back off and hidden, and Glorfindel found himself moved to more tears that he tried to dry. Something had to be said, but every time he tried to frame words, they refused to coalesce. Or he could walk back across the room, but then he really might start crying and blubbering again. ‘Thank you’ seemed pathetically inadequate. 

Erestor by now stood in the doorway, unable to avoid Glorfindel’s rampant thoughts even if he wished to, and perceiving the problem. He smiled at Fingon, and moved to embrace Glorfindel. “It is all right,” he soothed, rocking him a little, and turned to Fingon. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him, and I have to admit it supersedes all of the many nice things I tried to say myself over a long time. He wants to thank you and cannot find words. I hope it will not be seen as rude on my part, that I speak for him this once. That was beautiful, Káno.” A sniffle and a nod were heard and seen from the mop of blond hair buried against Erestor’s shoulder.

While Glorfindel was reading, Fingon had played a simple little melody softly on his harp. The harp was now being repositioned back on the floor so that Fingon could approach them. “I thought maybe I would read it to you,” he said, “but I knew if I did, I would have been crying first.” He put his arms around them both, his nose already a little stuffed up as he blinked at a few tears. “I never used to get this damned emotional. I guess I must be in love or something.” He was able to steal a kiss across Glorfindel’s cheek, and then kissed Erestor’s cheek as well. “There is nothing rude about it,” he assured Erestor. “For are we not all but one spirit, shared among us?”

Glorfindel’s hand moved, to hold Fingon’s arm. “Made me feel so loved,” he managed to choke out, before emotion forced him to resume his silence. 

“You are loved,” Erestor said. “And not just because you are the sexiest blond warrior ever to cross my path and have the kindness to love me in return.” Many kisses were given to the crown of his head, which had the unintended effect of inspiring another aspect of Erestor’s body. 

Glorfindel laughed, because the twitching and swelling he felt against his side was unmistakable. “Oh, that is just your cucumber talking,” he teased.

Sensing the shift, Fingon eased back just slightly. “So I thought I would sit over there and play while you… cultivate your cucumbers. Is that even… I have no idea if that euphemism even works. You know what I mean. I am just going to go back over there and play with my harp while the two of you play with each other,” he said as he slid away and went purposefully back to the spot he had been just minutes ago.

“Can I ask you something?” Glorfindel said shyly, before looking down. “I mean, I know you will tell me yes so I should quit being so… me. I want to understand. Does… does it turn you on, to watch us? Or is it that frequent sexual contact is too much all at once for you?” The blue-green eyes were full of sincerity and honesty curiosity. “I just know that seeing others would make me feel incredibly aroused, but I know something is different for you.”

Fingon had been about to pick up the harp, but he set it back down again. “Phhh… umm… those are a lot of different questions. Let me see how many I can answer without sounding like an ass. Alright, so, you know I have ways of finding pleasure that do not include physical manipulation of my genitals. And, the part that is going to sound contradictory and confusing is that I masturbate a lot -- just not the way that most people would… see it as that. Um… so… the physical part…” Fingon struggled, grasping for words. “I can tell, when I look at your naked body, that you have a very pleasing form. I… shit.” Fingon ran a hand through his hair. “My attraction is beyond that, though. What I am attracted to is… you, not the thing we see, but what you are. Who you are. How you are. So, again, while I can obviously see that both of you together make a very nice pair, and both of you are handsomely attractive… that is not the part that is going to arouse me. What may do that is to see just how beautiful your souls, your inner being is, when intimately interacting with one another. The easiest way to do that is very close, sexual contact, but there are other ways of it as well. And every time I try to explain to someone, I feel as if I come off sounding as if I am… above the idea of physical contact, which is not at all the case. I enjoy touching and kissing, but… is any of this helping, or am I just making it worse and more confusing?”

“It is very helpful. Káno, you will never sound like an ass to me. I have no way to know this if you do not tell me, and it is very much appreciated. Maybe I will ask more, but not now. Right now I have someone who has been patiently waiting for his cucumber to…” Glorfindel started giggling. 

“Come here, you,” Erestor growled. “I will do my best to remind you.” He pulled Glorfindel into a kiss that started out gentle, but then became rougher and more urgent. “Cucumbers get impatient,” he quipped with a wink.

Fingon pulled the harp into his lap as quietly as possible and played a few chords. “Would you prefer something fast, or a softer melody?”  
“Fast,” Erestor grinned. “I do not intend for this to be a lengthy display.”

“So you want the cucumber concerto, not the cucumber lament. Got it,” said Fingon as his fingers danced over the strings.

Abandon came over Erestor. Glorfindel’s emotional vulnerabilities made him seem that much more desirable. He knelt on the bed, grabbing a fistful of the golden hair, and brought his engorged length to his partner’s lips. He was not disappointed. With Glorfindel certain what was being asked of him, he soon had Erestor plunging roughly into the moist heat, moving to Fingon’s counterpoint. Unable to last through Glorfindel’s skilled fellatio, Erestor came hard and groaned out the extra pleasure Glorfindel’s lips and tongue added to his climax. Panting, he smiled and stroked the beautiful mane. He waved to attract Fingon’s attention.

“Yes?” Káno asked, amused.

“Could I ask now for that slower music you mentioned? Moving on here to the second act,” he grinned.

Their accompanist answered with his fingers on the strings. Now he plucked out a languid and haunting melody, offset with octave intervals in the lower range.

Erestor had already slipped from Glorfindel’s mouth, as his hands continued to thank and praise for the attentions he was given. “Now you will take me,” the dark ellon demanded, but with tenderness in his voice. “I want to watch as you prepare me, and see your face when you come.”

Glorfindel now rose up to match Erestor’s posture, bewildered and alluring. A hand brushed over the rosy nipples before he drew their bodies together. 

Erestor hooked his fingers under Glorfindel’s jaw, tilting his head up so that their eyes met. “I hope you know that I love you, Fin. I think I do not say it enough, but it is true. I bless Eru, that he favored me with you.” 

The happiness on Glorfindel’s innocent face blazed forth, as he claimed Erestor’s mouth, gently pushing him back until he lay on top of him, his erection buried against the smooth belly, sharing sweet kisses. He spared nothing, from the hot tongue that plunged deep inside to tease and arouse Erestor again, to the fingers that moved with tormenting slowness to stretch his entrance. 

“Come on,” Erestor whined. “Harder. Faster. Take me.”

“Mmmm, do you know that sounds an awful lot like what you said our very first time?” Glorfindel pointed out.

“Oh?” Erestor asked. “I might not remember what I said, but I certainly remember what you did.”

“This?” Glorfindel plunged in, excited by so much foreplay. “I remember what I thought, too. That I was not going to last long. I think history is repeating itself.”

“Then fuck me hard, and let me watch you.”

The blond smiled. He could certainly manage that request, and somehow the quality of Fingon’s song egged him on with more passion than if it has been a very fast-paced melody. He did as he was asked, bracing himself so that his thumbs and forefingers could pinch and twist at Erestor’s nipples while he plunged wildly. A second wail of pleasure from Erestor signalled the success of his efforts only seconds before he shuddered and released inside of his mate. Collapsing, Glorfindel writhed and grunted against his lover. Erestor’s arms encircled him, and both cherished the warm embrace in the aftermath of their bliss. 

Glorfindel was first to speak. “Is your cucumber happy?” he murmured.

Erestor stretched lazily. “Oh. Yes, very. And so is the rest of me. That was wonderful. Thank you. And thank you, Fingon. I need a damp cloth, and then I will be in fit condition to advance to snuggling.”

“I am… sure you will be,” replied Fingon. He played to what seemed the end of the song, but shortly after another followed. This one was a little faster, but not as fast as the first. It was subtly seductive, and Fingon hummed along as he played, fingers caressing the strings gracefully. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed a little as he kept time.

“He has no idea how alluring he is, does he?” said Glorfindel to Erestor in the softest of whispers.

“Maybe? I think it is more that he does not care.”  
Fingon’s eyes remained closed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly.

“Oh really?” Glorfindel breathed into his ear. “Are you telling me that does not make you want him desperately? Because that is what it does to me.”

“Well… yes, of course that,” Erestor admitted. “He is so very beautiful, and without pretense.”

“Someday,” whispered Glorfindel with pained envy.

“I hope so,” his mate confirmed. “I really hope so.”

The performance continued, and at first it was hard to tell if it was only what the other two wanted to hear, but after some time it was obvious that Fingon was purposely making some of the humming sound like low, passionate moans. His movements were not random; he was dancing, for them, as he sat with his harp, singing for them, in this very sensual way. Still, his eyes stayed closed, and a slight blush crept up his neck -- but still, he played, and wrapped melodies around each other like lovers entwining. With all the practice of the Elven minstrels who have mastered the art of persuasion, he attempted to project to them the vision of a night of unbridled passion between all three of them, with no shame and no boundaries.

Glorfindel clung to Erestor, finding in his genuine tiredness that his mind felt aroused once again, though his body was satisfied and more than a little spent. To his surprise, he found that Erestor’s hands wandered to his shoulders, and began to massage his muscles. Shoulder, neck, down his spine. He tried to think if Erestor had ever touched him quite like this before, in a context not meant to lead to intercourse. It did not matter. A soft moan escaped, as tense muscles sang under a delight not often experienced. It felt like an exquisite dominance, as sometimes the kneading fingers brought both pleasure and occasional bursts of pain, as something was pressed too hard. He wanted more. Arching his back, twisting his limbs, he continued to lean back into the exploring fingers.

With increased intensity, Fingon played on, performing for his lovers with a flush to his cheeks, and yet as if he was only vaguely aware of their presence. He no longer moved with the music -- he was the music, and his harp and accompaniment. Moans, groans, and gasps issuing forth without hesitation, and all the while, he moved. He arched and undulated his body, at once both limp and engaged. Relaxed, yet insistent. 

A particularly needy gasp from his own throat seemed to catch Fingon off guard. An unpleasant noise came from the harp as he fumbled to keep from dropping it. He swallowed hard as he opened his eyes and looked across the room. “I guess I really lost myself for a moment,” he realized, face red yet otherwise composed. There was a hint of sweat upon his brow, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. “I was supposed to get a damp cloth,” he belatedly acknowledged.

“We are way beyond a damp cloth,” Glorfindel swallowed hard. “Probably only a cold bath would matter.”

“That was stunning,” Erestor said, rising to kiss him. “One of the most eloquent things I have ever seen. There are times I wonder how you can possibly love me, but then I stop asking and simply consider my good fortune. I will get the cloth; this was my idea in the first place. But I think someone with golden hair is almost desperate to cuddle with you.”

Fingon was still cradling the harp with both arms, and he waited until Erestor began to walk away from him before he set it carefully down on the floor. He locked eyes with Glorfindel, studied him for a moment, then gave the slightest flick of head. “Come over here,” he whispered, as if the movement had not been enough.

Mesmerized, Glorfindel obediently rose without hesitation and approached, instinctively kneeling so that he could place his head on Fingon’s lap. He felt such longing toward him, and yet nothing about it was anything he could parse out or explain. His actions followed from an instinct he could not trace to its source.

Gently, Fingon stroked Glorfindel’s hair as he looked down at him. “It may not look it, but I, too, was affected by the passion surrounding us,” he said, despite by all appearances looking little more than slightly winded from his solo. “I thought, perhaps, as I also find my odd sort of release that you might have interest in being near.”

“Please?” asked Glorfindel. That sounded to him as though he was to… observe, more than anything else. If this was other than a solo activity or if his participation in some manner was wanted, he had faith he would be asked.

Fingon nodded, almost shyly, and looked away only briefly. “Just… try not to laugh at me?” He flashed a quick and uncertain smile of his own to the blond beauty.

The eyes that looked back appeared a little stricken. “I would never…” He swallowed hard, and looked down. “Please do not think that of me. I know what it is to be mocked.”

“Oh, no, never, sweetheart,” crooned Fingon as he tilted Glorfindel’s head back up with a single finger. “That was why I said ‘try not to’; I do not expect you to do so intentionally. I personally thought the whole thing was stupid when I first encountered the idea -- I read a book, I laughed, I rolled my eyes, I even read parts aloud to laugh at it with others. The next time I encountered it, I read it with curiosity. Eventually I realized I only laughed because I did not understand, not because I meant malice. Maybe if I stop talking and start showing, that would be better. Before the urge within me subsides.”

“Is this… could I touch you? Hold onto your hand or even your foot. You make me feel as though this will seem unusual but while I am interested I do not want to interfere.”

“I was hoping for a little more than hand-holding,” Fingon admitted. He adjusted his posture a little on the bench he had been sitting on, so that he was more firmly seated and his legs were parted, feet planted on the ground. He coaxed Glorfindel to stand with his hands, and then patted his knee. “If you sort of kneel on either side of my legs, you can sit backwards on my lap and watch, I think? And, yes, touching will not interfere… I think that could be quite nice.”

“Like this?” Glorfindel lowered himself tentatively, still confused.

Fingon nodded as Glorfindel settled on his lap. “Yes.” He took hold of Glorfindel’s hips and closed his eyes. For a minute or so, it seemed that all Fingon was doing was breathing, for that really was all he was doing. His back was straight, his chin up slightly, and his hands loosely in place. It began slowly, but then it was audible -- the sound as he exhaled, no longer through his nose, but out his mouth, blowing a stream of air at Glorfindel’s chest or torso, dependant upon the angle of Fingon’s head each time he did so. 

This continued a number of times, and then there was a pause between the breath in and the breath out, and with it the tightening of muscles, beginning with Fingon’s feet and calves, working up to include his thighs, then into his pelvis and stomach, to his chest, and continuing up through his body, and down his arms from his shoulders, until at last with each breath came a squeeze to Glorfindel’s hips, the muscles in the rest of Fingon’s body engaged with energy. Each time he held the energy in just a little longer, and when expelled, became more vocal -- though it was not like the wanton cries elicited from Erestor. These were short, soft bursts, reminiscent of the noises made while Fingon played harp earlier. After one particularly long-held breath, Fingon let it out with a gasp that punctuated the silence. “Almost,” he whispered as he trembled a little.

Tentatively, hoping he was not doing anything wrong, Glorfindel reached for Fingon’s throat, tracing his fingers around his neck. He leaned forward, lips parted, but not completely closing the distance. With incremental slowness, his fingers traced through the hair just behind his ears. Here he waited, watching intently for any sign of encouragement.

Eyes still closed, Fingon licked his lips and nodded. He took another breath, but this one he did not hold as long, and it was rather shakily exhaled.

Leaning forward more, Glorfindel very softly pressed his parted lips against Fingon’s. At the same time, one finger ghosted along the edge of his left ear. He could now feel the warmth of his partner’s breath, taste the scent of his lips. Despite his desire for so much more, he remained restrained, reverent, opening himself to the moment and what was being shared.

Fingon had begun the act of inhaling once again when Glorfindel closed the distance between them. The kiss, so very chaste, by itself would only have served to strengthen the connection Fingon felt by having Glorfindel with him for the experience. It was that whisper of a touch upon his ear that caused him to bring air sharply into his lungs, all of his muscles reacting at once instead of the rhythmic ebb and flow he was accustomed to. He pressed his fingers firmly against Glorfindel’s skin, holding onto him as his own body jerked in response to the miniscule manipulation of so sensitive an area. There was something of a convulsive maneuver, followed by several gasps, muscles solid and filled with energy -- and then with a sound of release and relief, Fingon’s hands slid away, down to rest on the bench. He leaned back, and the wall braced him. He opened his eyes with a slow flutter, mouth slightly open, as if waking from a daze. There were no telltale signs left behind; no damp cloth needed. “I need… to have you here… more often… when I do that…”

“You…?” Glorfindel whispered, kissing him softly through the words. “You climax but release no seed?” He was having a difficult time comprehending what had just transpired. Or rather, not transpired. His sharp ears also caught the sound of Erestor’s feet padding on the floor; he had returned and silently began sponging the few places where a fleck of telltale sheen was drying on his partner’s skin.

Fingon merely gave the slightest shrug of his shoulder. “Seems to… be the case,” he said. “Feels different, though.” He was still struggling to catch his breath again.

“Will you let us help you to bed?” Erestor asked, offering his hand. “I want you to be able to relax now.”

“I am… very relaxed,” Fingon confirmed as he weakly lifted a hand, extending his arm past Glorfindel to brush Erestor’s fingertips before once again letting his arm rest on the cushion of the bench. “Bed does sound nice.”

“Then I will get up, because I definitely am not helping,” Glorfindel laughed, moving to the side opposite Erestor. “There. Can you walk, or shall we carry you?”

The question appeared to confused Fingon for a moment. “Can I walk? Sure.” And yet, he remained seated.

“Maybe I should rephrase,” Erestor smiled. “Will you punish either of us, if we carry you to bed? You are tired, love. We just want to help. And spoil you a little, if you will allow it.”

“I would never, ever dream to punish dear, sweet Glorfindel,” replied Fingon. “You, on the other hand,” he said, reaching out as if he was going to poke Erestor’s nose, but missing quite handily, “Then again, one man’s punishment is another man’s pleasure.” He lifted a brow to see if Erestor would challenge that.

Erestor stood tall, crossed his arms and smirked insufferably. Glorfindel quashed a smile, and scooped Fingon into his arms, depositing him after a short journey to the center position of their bed. Erestor busied himself blowing out the candles with careful puffs of air.

Fingon giggled, swallowed his mirth, then giggled again in spite of himself. “Alright, I kind of enjoyed that,” he admitted as he struggled with the belt of his robe. In the end, he shimmied out of it and tossed it down at the end of the bed, where it slid off onto the floor.

Glorfindel climbed in next to him, immediately cuddling up and molding himself against the warm body. For someone with no known gymnastic ability, the curve of his instep followed Fingon’s leg rather gracefully as he flexed it into a position that allowed him the most contact. He sighed deeply in happiness and pure contentment. Licking his lips once or twice, he closed his eyes. Erestor blew out the last candle, and did much the same. However, he added a chaste kiss to Fingon’s lips, and draped his arm loosely over to be able to lay a hand on Glorfindel as well.

With one arm around Erestor and the other around Glorfindel, Fingon alternated between playing with Glorfindel’s hair and stroking Erestor’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, expecting to drift off to sleep. Letting the mind wander as it usually does, he suddenly chuckled low, the slight rumble shaking all three of them.

“Whazzz so funny?” mumbled Erestor, who had been at the very cusp of falling into slumber, owed in no small part to the soothing touches. The caresses were the perfect finale to the sexual satisfaction permeating and relaxing him. Something like a grunt followed, when the inky head tried to bury itself further against his lover.

“I just hope Turgon likes hat soup,” Fingon said before he tucked both of them closer and snuggled in to rest.

Erestor’s brows knitted together on account of the answer and decided that perhaps it was sleep-talk or… something inconsequential. Certainly nothing for which he was going to rouse his mind. A last impression of feeling secure, and loved flitted in his thought, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling Glorfindel,
> 
> When I was a young boy, I was at my grandfather's house for the summer when I met my cousin Makalaure. It was Findarato who pointed out we were only half-cousins. I asked my father what this meant and he explained how my grandmother was not Makalaure's, but that we shared a grandfather. I was young, and asked "WHY?" a lot and eventually I had the entire story.
> 
> Some time later, when I was visiting my grandparents again, I asked if it would be allowed to have two husbands, or if it was only forbidden to have two wives. My grandmother declared no woman would ever want two husbands, and I said to her: "NO, SILLY, I MEANT ME!"
> 
> Needless to say, she was not amused and my father did not take me back there for holiday for quite some time.
> 
> (pages 2)
> 
> I was told to put the idea out of my head, and never again mentioned it to my family.
> 
> Over the years, it has been brought up now and then, but in more of a hypothetical way. Last night, lying in bed with you in my arms and Eresse beside me, I had an overwhelming sensation of being home.
> 
> You are a very important part of the family of my choosing. Not by happenstance, luck, or folly -- I choose you because I want you to be near me just as much as I want to be near Eresse. I choose you because we both make each other better. I choose you because when I wake up and see you I smile simply because you are there and I am happy and I love you. I choose you, forever and always.
> 
> Yours,  
> Kano
> 
> PS Thank you for allowing me to see that my childhood dream could become a reality.


	5. I Reconsider My Foolish Notion

Glorfindel woke slowly, in a pleasant haze. Fingon was missing, but he still felt Erestor’s warmth in the bed and wriggled toward it, spooning against him. Assorted noises came from downstairs, but none that he could clearly identify as belonging to food preparation. He would find out. In just a few more minutes. His eyes closed again, while he breathed Erestor’s scent deeply.

Several minutes later, the bottom steps squeaked. Not long after, the dog pushed the door open and pounced on one of Erestor’s slippers. Fingon, following behind, shushed the dog and partially closed the door, leaving it ajar in case the dog wanted to leave the room. He was wearing a pair of pants meant for lounging, and the robe from the night before without the sash, left open, chest bare. He had yet to comb and slick back his hair, so it was sticking up and out and frizzed more than a few places. Quietly, he made his way to the vanity that doubled as a small workspace when he did not feel like working downstairs or in the library. Fingon read through the start of a letter, and began again to work on it, moving the quill as silently as possible.

Against Erestor, Glorfindel began to twitch; he had fallen into a very deep sleep and dreamt. His movements were enough to wake Erestor thoroughly. Uncensored images came through to his mind, of Glorfindel in distress, in tears. Someone was hurting him, sexually, doing something he was trying to force himself to endure even though it was not endurable. Erestor did not open his eyes but reached out and held his mate tightly, wondering at the blurry images coming to him of pain and so much unhappiness. That he could not place these events anywhere in their long shared history worried him greatly. He had strong guesses, but guesses were not the same as full understanding. His hand moved to stroke the golden head rhythmically. What he wanted was for Glorfindel to wake. _I am here, baby. Here with you, and I have you. None of that is real anymore. Wake up for me, Fin. Wake up in my arms and know how much I love you, how precious you are to me. Glorfindel, it is Erestor. Come to me, beautiful. Let me see your eyes, gorgeous. I love you, so much… please, Fin, wake up so I can see you…_

With a grunt and a start Glorfindel started to surface with a whimper and an impression of deep misery. But just as swiftly he became aware of the soft words and comfort surrounding him. And he listened. Moaning, he snuggled closer toward Erestor. Erestor, who made all the bad feelings go away. “Ress,” he managed to murmur, though it was closer to a whine.

“Shhhh. I am right here.”

“Scared, Ress.”

“It was just a bad dream, Fin. There is nothing that can hurt you. I am here and so is Káno. We love you.”

As reassurance, Fingon, who had immediately moved to the bed when he heard the unrest of rustling sheets, sat down on the edge of the mattress and placed his hand over the blanket that covered Glorfindel’s thigh. “Everything is alright,” he whispered.

“Bad dream?” Glorfindel tried to echo.

“Yes, love. Just a bad dream.” Erestor kissed his forehead, loosening his grip as Glorfindel tried to rub his eyes. 

“Do not even remember what it was,” he said, now waking up more and trying to prop himself up on one elbow.

“That is for the best,” soothed Erestor. “Someone as beautiful as you are should not pay such silly things any mind.”

”But did you see what it was at all?” Glorfindel asked, worry nagging at him.

Fingon shook his head. “Erestor kicked its ass before I could join the party.” He looked to Erestor with as much askance as Glorfindel.

“No,” Erestor equivocated. “I could only tell that you were not happy and it was time to wake up anyway.”

“Oh. Yes,” smiled Glorfindel, leaning forward to kiss the guardian of his dreams. “Thank you.”

“I could bring breakfast up here,” offered Fingon. “I just want to finish this letter quickly so that the courier is able to get it when they come by this morning, and then I could make something to be served in bed, even though, as you know, I despise crumbs in the sleeping chamber, but I would make this exception for a special occasion -- and because the dog is probably willing to clean up whatever is brushed off onto the floor.”

“Like that so much.” Glorfindel spoke as someone still in the bonds of sleep. He leaned again into Erestor, but now one hand flailed toward where he thought Fingon might be. “Spread out big cloth. Tidy.” His lips smacked together. Erestor’s warmth and scent were so, so inviting right now.

Fingon smiled and took hold of Glorfindel’s hand, which he lifted to his lips to kiss. “Today, you shall be king,” he said with a smile on his lips. “I just need to finish this recipe for hat soup.” He leaned forward to kiss Erestor before he slipped away and went back to the vanity, sitting down with a little giggle as he saw the words on his page.

“Whaddafuckzz hat soup?” Glorfindel said groggily into Erestor’s chest. For once, exceedingly educated Erestor had no foggy clue. 

“I do not know, love, but eventually we will find out.” Still stroking the golden hair, he lay back down and closed his eyes, pulling Glorfindel to him. With the promise of breakfast in bed, it seemed far more appealing to keep His Temporary Majesty warm and happy.

“Hat soup requires chopped onion, celery, carrot, and potato. Turnip seemed a bit much. Also noodles. I considered dumplings, but I think those would stick to the hat,” admitted Fingon as he continued to scribble and snicker away.

“Dammakzznosennse,” Glorfindel pronounced.

“Shhh baby. He is just teasing. Go back to sleep.” Erestor kissed his mate’s brow, feeling unusually protective. He began to hum a melody. Nothing in particular, just something he had composed long ago.

Another grunt came from Glorfindel as he nestled close and sighed.

“Is suggesting an additional recipe that uses hat stock going too far?” questioned Fingon from his workspace.

Erestor blinked. “Perhaps if I understood the context?” the dark one answered helplessly. “I pride myself on my well-rounded knowledge but you have me at a distinct loss, Káno.”

“Oops. Sorry.” With one more chuckle, Fingon set his quill down and waved the page to dry it. He walked with it to the bed, and held out the letter he had started to write while the others were still asleep. “I am not sure how much you recall of it, but there was a festival or something at Thranduil’s inn, and the two of you stayed at my theatre because there was no room at the inn. Turgon stayed there as well, but he was staying in my room. He knew I had… reasons for having the two of you over. After I helped to ready you,” he poked at Erestor’s nose with a single finger of his free hand, “I went back and I may have been a little giddy and Turgon shook his head a lot and told me I was dreaming.”

Erestor took the letter and raised a brow, expecting the story to continue. 

“Then we went to the event, and it rained very hard near the end, and I looked around a bit for the two of you, but I have no idea where you went. Turgon and I went back to the theatre, because I thought you might show up there, but obviously that did not occur,” Fingon reminded them with a hint of sadness. “There was more head shaking, and finally during the late evening or early morning, he confronted me on why I would want to have a relationship with anyone, let alone two anyones, who were clearly far more sexually inclined than I am. You see, and perhaps this is more than you wanted to know about my brother, but he is somewhat like I am -- though, in his case, he is very reserved. I literally believe he only had sex once,” Fingon said rather bluntly.

“What??” Glorfindel sat bolt upright.

“Oh, so that gained your attention?” Erestor teased. 

“Maybe,” Fin grinned, rubbing his eyes. “Either way I am not missing this explanation.”

“Right, well, I should sit down for this,” Fingon decided, and settled onto the edge of the bed again. “Turgon was utterly convinced -- and probably still is -- that sex equals making elflings. This was… almost unfortunately justified when he and Elenwë had sex, her to prove it would not be the case, only for her to end up pregnant. Erestor, you must remember that very rushed wedding,” he prodded. “I know you attended. I remember seeing you there.”

“I was,” Erestor said, willing his face to a mask of neutrality. “And what a shame, for someone free to indulge himself within marriage but not wishing to. I hope his wife has… a similar disposition, or creative abilities to satisfy herself.”

“I never thought to ask,” said Fingon. “I do know that it goes beyond that. For example, I will not borrow books from him, because he has someone censor them for him. I did that once and made it to the good parts, and someone had blacked them out with paint.”

“I find that deeply disturbing, honestly,” Glorfindel shook his head. “But as someone who wishes to be accepted as I am, I accept him. Even if I cannot even pretend to understand his apparent preferences. Everything you have explained to me about yourself, Káno, has been something I could comprehend even though I am not the same.” He shrugged. “Maybe it does not matter. If he is happy… but I wonder… is he?”

“Again, things you likely never knew -- he wanted to be a monk. At one point, it was thought that within practicing Sedryner families, that the first son was the heir, and if a second was born, they should be the religious pillar of the family and should consider being a priest or monk or cleric of some sort. There is this order of Sedryners with particularly strict rules, and he was really into the idea when he was young. He would run off to tower they lived in after he finished chores the way other children ran to play in the woods or go swimming or ride a pony. He was very dedicated to the idea -- and one of the principles was celibacy, and he was on board with that.” Fingon shrugged. “When he was old enough, he formally made his desire known to the elders, and they said absolutely not. They believed he was sincere, and that he could fulfill the vows, except one.” Fingon paused a moment to see if either of his lovers were going to hazard a guess.

Erestor’s brows knitted, because...he should be able to do more than guess. But...he looked at Glorfindel a little helplessly, as he watched the blond’s eyebrow raise in query. “Ress?”

“I, uh…” In the end he had to shake his head and look to Fingon expectantly.

“He is unable to shut the fuck up,” Fingon reminded them. “They very politely explained that the vow of silence was not optional. He tried to negotiate it,” Fingon said with a bit of a smile. “He made a practice attempt, and it lasted all of eight minutes. In the end, he was not sore about it, and still spent time there, and helped them with things, including selling the liquor that they made there. However, it seemed he was looking for something in life where he could, more or less, ignore sex. He seems to generally be successful. Where was I going with this… oh! The hat. So I tried to tell him that I felt there might be a way for me to have pleasure of my own sort with multiple partners at the same time, and he said I would never find anyone like that, let alone more than one anyone, and when I told him I still had hope, he finally responded that if it should happen, he would eat his hat. However, this was not the first time he offered that boon -- there was something about eating his hat if I ever had less cats than I have fingers, and ever held a ‘real’ job again, and a few other things. This does cause the trouble that the hat can only be eaten once -- unless it is used to create a stock for soup. Then it can be eaten forever.” Fingon’s grin was a little too gleeful.

“I think this is best left between kings,” Glorfindel opined. “And I recuse myself from any involvement because I will no longer be a king tomorrow. It feels safer that way.”

“I concur,” Erestor said, realizing that this meant they really were incredibly odd, though he tried not to think on that at length.

Fingon took the letter back and walked once more to the vanity. “I think I should leave it as is. He should clearly get the point from it. What does his temporary royal highness wish for breakfast this morning?” he asked as he finished with his letter.

Glorfindel smiled and looked down. Everything he really wanted would be revolting for Fingon to even look at, much less cook. So he did what all lovers do, and lied. “I would really love some porridge. Maybe with fresh or dried fruit, if we have any?”

Fingon looked over his shoulder. “Really? King Glorfindel is not interested in eggs and bacon and… actually, I honestly do not know if we have bacon, but I know we have the eggs.”

Erestor smirked as he saw Glorfindel bite his lip and blush. “King Glorfindel is a terrible liar. But he loves you very much. Tell him the truth, Fin. Not just what you think he wants to hear.”

“I can make a quiche or a souffle or an omelet or eggy toast…” Fingon droned on softly with a half dozen other possibilities.

“But…” Glorfindel’s cheeks were now flaming pink, and he sighed. It was no good, he was caught. “Yes I would like eggs, but it means more to me that you not make yourself uncomfortable preparing food for me,” he said softly.

“Sweetheart, I am only going to be uncomfortable if someone makes me eat it,” countered Fingon. “I can cook it. I can even kill it and clean it -- sorry, Eres, cover your ears,” he suddenly said, cringing a little as he realized how flippantly the words came out.

“Oh. I did not realize. I thought you…”

“...were like Erestor. No, he is not,” Erestor explained. 

“Although Erestor and I do share the same physical build, occupational preferences, and great taste in blond companions,” interjected Fingon.

“Do you want me to tell him?” Erestor asked, stroking the blond hair.

Glorfindel nodded.

“If there are any breakfast meats he would like that very much. If not, his second choice is eggs. He likes them coddled most of all but over-medium is also very highly regarded. Toast or biscuits with butter and jam is also nice. He will eat porridge too, but likes it heavily spiced.”

“First and second choices? There are no choices for kings -- they get everything they desire.” Fingon sealed the letter and readied it for the courier. “I know we have no beef, so I cannot make a steak for you, and I am really unsure of the bacon. However -- what are your thoughts on smoked salmon and cheese on toasted bread?”

“Please,” Glorfindel said quickly, smiling now and happy that Fingon did not shame him for lying about the food.

“Excellent.” Fingon stood and walked to the bed. “If you will excuse me, your majesty, I will see to it that the cook has that all made for you promptly. And what about his highness?” asked Fingon as he looked at Erestor.

“What do you mean?” Erestor asked, confused. “Today is Fin’s day...is it not?”

‘Of course it is,” agreed Fingon immediately. “But every handsome king has an equally handsome… not-quite-king-prince-sounds-weird-whatever-you-want-to-be, and… well, honestly, Erestor,” he said, breaking the character for a moment, “I am not about to bring you salmon or bacon -- nor porridge, because I am sure you would like something a little nicer today. I could make you some nice hat soup,” he offered with a wicked smile.

“This is how you treat your elders?” Erestor crossed his arms and pretended to be insulted.

“Honestly, baby, most of the time I forget you are older than me,” Fingon admitted. “Do you want to make a request, or should I just try and guess?”

“I really do want the porridge with dried fruit. There are almost no greens to be had in the garden. Perhaps an egg, also. You can prepare it any way you wish. Then at least one aspect of the meal can be a surprise,” Erestor said. “We need a greenhouse, or something like it, rather badly. Two of us do not eat meat, and little by way of vegetables grow in winter on account of the cold and short days.”

“A surprise? For you? Who are you and what did you do with our Eres?” teased Fingon 

Glorfindel’s eyebrow raised, but he said nothing. His silence did not stop him thinking, and visualizing, and reflecting on some books in which he now wanted to double-check some references. Surely there was a volume concerning thermal science he had seen once?

“Oh. True. Silly me,” Erestor waffled, wondering how he could have managed such an out-of-character statement. “I, uhm, wait, do I hear hoofbeats? Did you not want the courier? That could be him.”

Fingon grabbed his letter to his brother and another from the top of the nightstand and burst out of the room.

“You really are amazing,” Glorfindel said drily. “I have never met anyone, and I have met a lot of people in my life, who can change a subject quite like you can.”

“It is a gift,” smirked Erestor. “I do hope you have taken notes, in all these years. I am nothing if not educational.”

“Educational? Exasperating, is more like it,” Glorfindel grumbled under his breath.

“Darling, I can hear you just fine,” Erestor batted his eyelashes.

“But I am the king. He said so. So I expect no sassing from my loyal subjects.”

Erestor stood now, and put his hands on his hips. “Find me a king that did not say I was a colossal pain in their ass.”

“Well there, uhm, maybe, no, pretty sure even Thranduil and--”

“Wait. What about Thranduil?” Erestor demanded.

“Nothing,” Glorfindel said innocently. “Nothing at all. I was just thinking out loud. You know, ticking off the list of kings. Kings that know you.”

“I think you just want me to be a pain in your ass,” Erestor smirked.

“Oh, definitely. But I want that after breakfast. Kings require sustenance, you know.”

“Fingon created a monster,” Erestor said flatly.

“Mmm. You have no idea,” Glorfindel smiled, stretching and sauntering off naked to use the privy.

* *  
The courier was dismounting when Fingon opened the door of the cottage. They both gave a wave to each other, and Fingon jogged across the front lawn so as not to keep him. “Good morning,” he offered to the familiar face. The name escaped him, as so often names did. 

“Morning, sir! Must have something important for me,” said the courier.

“Important indeed.” Fingon held out two envelopes, one in each hand. “This one goes to the docks to be sent back to the mainland, and the other to--”

“--your library,” guessed the courier successfully.

“Hmm, if I have become that predictable, I clearly need a new routine.” Fingon lifted his hand in farewell, but the courier gave him an odd look. “Something wrong?”

“Did you want your package?”

“Mmm… for me?” questioned Fingon.

“For Master Erestor, I believe.” The courier now went to a small cart pulled by his horse. The letters were each deposited in a different box, and a crate was retrieved from a small stack of them. “Here it is. From Lord Círdan. He said it was a bit urgent -- produce, I think. Something about it just about going bad -- but I wonder then why he would not just leave it for his sows. He seemed insistent that Master Erestor would want whatever is in there.”

A familiar sweet, acid fragrance was evident as Fingon lifted the box and sniffed at it. “I think I am supposed to thank you for these, but…”

“Sounds like half of the things I pick up that are labeled for my wife to receive,” said the courier as he got back onto his horse. He waved his farewell and headed off down the road.

Fingon looked down at the crate he held. “Where this ends up is directly proportional to how much I love those two,” he said to the pungent medlars sure to be within. He walked to the door, whistling one of his usual tunes, wondering if perhaps he could incorporate some of what was in the box into the meal he was going to cook.

Glorfindel came to the door, verifying first that the courier was well down the road. He held a napkin over his privates with one hand, waving at Fingon with the other. “The king wants to know how his breakfast is shaping up,” he grinned, clearly enjoying every moment of this. His hair was still tousled charmingly, accenting the joy on his face.

Fingon halted on the walkway and looked Glorfindel over. “You know, I did a lot of strange things while I was king, but not once did I approach the kitchen staff while naked,” he revealed.

“I am not naked. I am covering the part of me that my love finds undesirable to look upon, out of my great regard for his happiness. Please. Naked would obviously be if I tossed aside the napkin.” Glorfindel preened a little by finger-combing his lovely hair. He then flexed the muscles in his arm, and continued with a second pose. He might have also inhaled so as to flatten his belly a little better, knowing that at best it was comical; he could not hope to match Fingon’s beautifully athletic body, but it was worth a shot.

“Technically, the definition of naked is in direct correlation to the clothing physically covering one’s body, not the placement of accompanying props.” Fingon hoisted the crate up a little, for while the contents were not beyond his ability to lift or carry, holding onto them for a prolonged period while standing in the same place was a bit tiring. He stayed where he was a moment more, giving Glorfindel an appraising look. “Though, I have to say, I do like what I see.” He wolf-whistled before he continued to walk to the doorway. Glorfindel was still in his path, and Fingon had a sudden thought. Still holding the crate, he stooped down and twisted his body so that his parcel was not in the way. Contorting so that he was looking squarely at Glorfindel’s belly button, he swiped his tongue across his lips, took a deep breath, pressed his face against Glorfindel’s skin, and blew the air out, laughing himself near the end at the tickle in his lips.

“Hey, that was supposed to be my thing!” Glorfindel protested, dropping the napkin on account of being startled. He reflexively crossed his legs, now hopping off-balance in order to be able to still hide his penis from view. “Oh, dammit,” he grumbled, trying to retrieve the napkin, which showed off the well-constructed curves of his bottom to great advantage.

Fingon was now able to slide in between Glorfindel and the doorway, and after he quickly placed the box on the landing, he stood up behind Glorfindel. One foot shot out and he stepped on the napkin so that it could not be easily retrieved. “I am of the opinion that you have a beautiful body, and unless you truly want to hide it, you should display it in all its majesty, sire.” He lifted his foot, picked up the box, and headed to the kitchen, whistling again.

“But--” Glorfindel was baffled. “I do not understand. I thought-- penis-- are you telling me it is welcome to look at?” He was still hopping on one foot cross-legged, trying to shake out the napkin again just in case.

Fingon bit his lip and turned back around. “Someday, I will explain the whole penis thing. Right now… if I am completely honest, do you promise to tell me if I say something that bothers you?”

“Yes,” Glorfindel agreed without hesitation. “I… love you.” His eyes were wide, and innocent.

Shifting the crate again, Fingon cleared his throat. “Your appearance is very pleasing to me, because even when you are erect, you do not have a giant appendage that looks like it could take someone’s eye out. That was terrible wording,” recognized Fingon immediately. “Over the years, I have seen a lot of people naked, and I know how to look at the parts I do like. Oh, fuck, that was worse… dammit.” Fingon sighed. “You are beautiful, and the napkin is dirty now because it was on the floor,” he suddenly realized. He set the crate down where it was out of the way and walked back over. “I love you.” He kissed Glorfindel on the tip of the nose.

“I will wash the napkin,” Glorfindel smiled, not bothering to cover himself any longer. “And thank you for the compliment. I cannot help what I do or do not have, but I am not ashamed of my body. I love Erestor’s penis; what he has makes me feel so good. Just as someday I hope to love yours,” he said shyly, before blushing beet red and dashing off upstairs to get dressed.

Fingon blinked twice before he looked down. “Well, at least you stand a chance that someone is going to love you,” he grumbled before he picked up the crate again and took it to the kitchen.

Upstairs, Glorfindel moaned in embarrassment and fanned at his flaming cheeks. Had he really just said that?

“Do I want to know?” Erestor queried.

“I just told him that I love your penis. And that I want to love his.” Glorfindel fanned harder, waves of heat pouring off his face.

“How did he take it?” Erestor asked carefully.

“I do not know. I ran out of the room because I could not believe I said that. You know, out loud.”

“Huh,” Erestor answered, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. “Love, huh?”

Glorfindel licked his lips and nodded. A glance down at his groin showed that the body part there was echoing his words, standing proudly at attention.

“Well, it will take him awhile to prepare the food, and you are king today…” With a grin and a predatory pounce Erestor soon had Glorfindel thrown onto the bed and was teasing him deeply with his tongue. He sat up for a moment, to gauge the effect of his efforts. “Keep blushing, your majesty. It is terribly becoming.”

 

Meanwhile, Fingon was readying his work space for cooking eggs, sausage, and porridge. His efficiency was always astounding, even to his own parents -- and this was their profession. He had multiple pots and pans cooking a variety of breakfast foods when he heard the telltale sound of a headboard hitting the wall. 

Repeatedly.

He smirked and shook his head. “It seems breakfast preparation will be a solo affair,” he said. The dog yipped at him, and Fingon belatedly began to prepare an egg for the canine as well. “This is missing something… it needs bread. No time for muffins or biscuits… ah, pancakes. Always time for pancakes.” Fingon set to work on preparing the batter, mixing in time with the banging up above him.

And then, the noise suddenly stopped.

Fingon slowly looked up at the ceiling. And he started to count in his head. One… two… three… four…

He slowed his mixing of the batter, still watching above him. ...sixteen… seventeen… eighteen…

The dog lifted his head and whined. Fingon tapped the wooden spoon against the bowl. ...twenty-nine… thirty… thirty-one… thirty-two…

**_bam_ **

There it was.

**_bam_ **

Fingon shook his head again with a smile.

**_bam-bam-bam-Bam-Bam-BAM-BAM-BAM_ **

“That is more like it,” he drawled as the dog jumped up and growled. As Fingon heated another skillet, the dog ran out of the room. “I hope the two of you shut the door,” he said. The banging continued for another few minutes, then abruptly stopped. Fingon greased the skillet and whistled to himself.

He poured the first pancake, and it was perfect. “As it should be,” he said proudly. He was about to pour the next one, when he heard someone shout above him. His gaze shot up to the ceiling. He pressed his lips together as he heard what sounded like a shoe hitting the wall, a bark from the dog, another shout, a rustle and stomping across the room as the dog barked again, and then the slamming of the door. Fingon silently chuckled. The dog ran proudly past him, and gave a little growl as he passed Fingon. Someone’s loincloth was in the dog’s mouth, and he dropped it into the bed he had near the stove, and curled up protectively over it. “Those better not be mine,” was all Fingon warned before he returned to his pancakes. The first one had already been cooking for a bit, so he flipped it and waited for it to finish before he started on the next.

Again, the first was perfect. He intended to make lots of little pancakes - bite-sized and dippable - to lessen the possibility of syrup on the sheets. He was just about to pour the batter for the second when a loud bang from upstairs startled him. “Oh, come on,” he groaned as he looked at the uneven splotch that began to encroach upon the first pancake. Upstairs, the rhythm of the wall and headboard had the dog growling again. “Hush, you,” he scolded. 

The dog got out of his bed and pawed the stolen garment from it. When it was out of his sleeping territory and wadded on the floor near Fingon’s feet, the dog hunched over it, pawed it all closer, and started to hump it.

“Great. Every except me is thinking with their penis this morning.” He looked back to the mess in his skillet, and he got an idea. “Sure, why not?” he said to convince himself as he tilted the measuring cup that held the batter and began work on a slightly different design.

**

“Ress! You have never - _unh_ \- done this - _unhhhh_ \- before - _unnnnhhhhhh_ \- I….”

“Shhhhhh, baby. You have never been king before. Did you want me to stop?”

“No,” Glorfindel whimpered. “It is the best I ever - _unnnnnnnnnhhhhh_ \- we were married how long, and you never did this?”

“I did not know about it,” he whispered, nibbling Glorfindel’s ear. “Fingon has been good for us, Fin. In every way. He told me about this.”

Erestor began the slow, undulating motions that were not ordinary intercourse, but the targeted, relentless massage of the sensitive organ inside of his mate. Everyone of their persuasion knew that this small target gave pleasure during sex, but he had never understood just how far it could be taken.

“Ress….Ress…” Glorfindel panted, pawing at the sheets, overcome by sensations he did not quite know how to manage. Erestor stopped again, giving his stimulation time to settle over the blond’s entire body. Then, he started again, pushing with his penis to unerringly rub over the tiny organ. “More! Please! Just like that! More!”

Erestor was only too happy to oblige, until with something between a wail, a scream and a shout into the pillow Glorfindel’s orgasm triggered. A torrent of incoherent sounds came from his ecstasy; Erestor held on and kissed him tenderly on his shoulder, keeping as still as possible within his body. Time seemed to stand still, until Erestor realized they were not alone and that the dog was in the room. “Shoo! Out!” Erestor said, still trying to hold on to Glorfindel as his partner rolled over, desperate for easier breathing. Spotting the loincloth that had just been soiled, Erestor wadded it up and threw it at the dog, who after one sniff began licking at it. “OUT!” Erestor hollered, hurriedly slipping out of his partner to reach for the nearest available missiles; in this case, his own shoes. He only hit the dog once, who ran out of the room, with the loincloth in his mouth. “Disgusting,” Erestor grunted, flopping down on the bed again. “Fin?”

A muffled “whaaa?” came from the pillow.

“Fin, I did not finish, but I do not want to ruin what was quite obviously a wonderful experience for you.”

“Get back here,” Glorfindel growled. “And fuck me until you come.”

“Uh, right away, your highness.”

A chuckle came from the pillow.

**

Finding a tray big enough to hold all of the food was a challenge, but there was a wooden serving board with handles obviously meant for serving large game, and it would serve the purpose. Normally Fingon would have brought everything up in individual bowls and on small platters, but considering his culinary artistry… he chuckled at what was on the plates before he covered them with lids, loaded everything onto the board, and took it upstairs.

The passionate noises and banging on the wall had stopped a few minutes earlier; the dog was asleep again after finishing his egg and a sausage that decided to roll onto the floor, so the break in activities had to be organic. As the door was closed when Fingon arrived, and the tray too large to set down in the hallway, he had to tap the bottom of the door with his foot. “Your majesty, your breakfast hath arrived,” he called out.

A hurried movement in the room, a crashing noise (followed by a very audible “Fuck!!” from Erestor) and a few more footsteps preceded the dark (but tousled) beauty opening the door with a robe that he had obviously attempted to put on (yet failed miserably), for he had somehow managed to tie the sash to leave the midline of his body (genitals included) completely exposed. Erestor’s glassy-eyed expression indicated clearly enough the likely cause of his dishabille. The long lashes blinked a few times, before he smiled to see Fingon and the food (or was it the food, and Fingon?). Either way he licked his lips. “Fin, your majesty, your repast has arrived.” No exact answer was forthcoming from the bed, but the grunt issuing thence sounded most content.

A grin appeared from nowhere, and it took Fingon two attempts at licking his lips to swallow it down. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said as he entered (sideways, because of the size of the serving board). Fingon looked around, and it was obvious that it would not work on the bed, so he took it to the vanity and managed to just about get it onto the surface. There was a tray with legs that was tucked under the bed -- meals while lounging was not unheard of, and after an incident with a bowl of fruit that involved the dog, Fingon insisted upon the bed tray being easily accessible. He went to retrieve it and almost stooped down to give Glorfindel a kiss, then remembered his assumed role for the day, and returned to the serving board. “A fine meal from the cook for you, this morning, sire… eggs, sausage, and even some of his special flapjacks.” Fingon was glad to have his back to his lovers, for his grin took a little more time to banish as he peeked under the lids to check that he had the right meal on the tray. He added a glass of juice, a cup of coffee, the tiny cream and sugar service used only for the most special guests, and medlar-infused syrup in a small jar. Fingon checked to be sure all utensils were accounted for before he took a deep breath and resumed the air of polite servitude he recalled from his own butler long years ago. He turned and walked smartly to the bed.

“Fin,” Erestor breathed.

“Grzznk?”

“FIN!!”

Glorfindel launched upright, his pleasant dozing on the heels of Erestor’s orgasm shattered. “What?”

“Fin, your majesty, look at what the cook has prepared for you,” Erestor said softly. “May I serve you?”

The blue-green eyes blinked. “Ohhhh.” He looked at Fingon with eyes full of love but at the last moment remembered to stay in character. “The king is very pleased with the efforts of the cook.” His lips parted a little, only now registering the beautiful presentation of the food. Uncertain, he looked up at Erestor. “Please, would you? Service me.” He blinked. “That is not right,” he murmured, his cheeks coloring pink again. “Serve me. I guess you already did the former.” With a little grin, he looked down bashfully and laughed at his mistake.

Fingon set the tray in place, securing the legs so that it would not tilt and cause anything to slide off. Everything was revealed except the main plate, and he placed his hand upon the lid, about to lift it off. He felt as if some sort of cheeky comment would be appropriate, and yet none came to mind, so he only offered, “Enjoy!” before lifting the lid.

On the plate, some of the food was just there -- a border of sorts down the middle. On either side, though, the food was quite phallic. The largest of the sausages, slightly curved and placed so that it was arching up from the plate slightly, was flanked at the bottom by an egg on either side. The pancakes left little to the imagination -- stacked three high, Fingon had turned the mistake into a questionable masterpiece, with three remarkably similar sized penis shaped pancakes, complete with scrotum. It was garnished with whipped cream, which thankfully had not entirely melted, and yet looked even better now, Fingon realized. He somehow managed a most innocent look as he said, “The cook was very excited to have the opportunity to… serve you. He heard that you like to eat… sausages.” He bit his lip, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Erestor stared, mouth agape. “Who are you and what have you done with Fingon?” he asked quietly. This ran counter to everything he thought he knew about his lover. 

“What? This is not a real penis,” he said, breaking character momentarily. “I *can* tell the difference.”

“Oh my,” Glorfindel commented, stunned. “I do like to eat sausages. This is… is… I am going to eat this.” Happily he poked a finger into the whipped cream, smiling up at Fingon and sucking on his fingertip suggestively before reaching for the utensils.

Fingon shook out a napkin and draped it to keep anything from spilling. “I have your breakfast as well,” he said to Erestor before he stooped down to look under the bed, hoping to find a second forgotten tray there.

“I know you can tell the difference,” Erestor argued. “I just thought… now, wait. That is not fair. Would you eat those pancakes?” he queried. “Because I seem to recall something about penis-shaped medlar cheese that did not meet with your favor.”

“Damn right. I never said I was going to eat these.” Fingon looked appalled as he stood up with another tray, this one without legs. “These are for the two of you.” 

“Does it matter, Ress?” Glorfindel asked quietly, chewing his sausage. 

“I just want to understand,” whined Erestor.

Fingon sighed. “Not right now, Eres. If I explain, the food is going to get cold. Do you want your breakfast or not?”

“Want breakfast,” Erestor said, pouting magnificently.

“Then get back into bed. Now.” Once a king, always a king, realized Fingon as he walked away after the command was given. He placed the bowl of porridge on the tray, as well as the covered plate containing eggs and pancakes. He chuckled to himself, recalling how he had artfully arranged this plate, adding fluffy scrambled eggs to this pile of pancakes as the representation of golden hair in one’s nether region. There were also some edible yellow flowers on this plate, just in case there was any uncertainty of what Fingon was trying to convey. He added tea and juice, whistling as he worked.

Erestor considered his plate and grinned, having obeyed. For the novelty of it. “Thank you for this,” he told Fingon--he could be himself later on.

“You are most welcome.” Fingon carried the tray over and situated it on Erestor’s thighs. He rethought the liquids and moved these to the nightstand; the instability of the tray coupled with not knowing what Erestor’s reaction would be to his meal seemed to make this a better idea. He pulled off the lid with the same flourish he had the one covering Glorfindel’s meal. “I am sure I can convince the cook to make more if either of you want seconds.”

“I hardly know whether this is breakfast or dessert,” Erestor declared, vaguely glad that he had so recently satisfied himself. At least he could not react to the suggestive visuals quite this soon. Maybe. Well probably he could if he tried, but not trying seemed to be in order.

Every bite of the simple repast tasted utterly delicious, and in very short order most of their meal had been tucked away. They had now reached the point of being full enough, but continued to eat the delectable tidbits because stopping might have inadvertently conveyed a lack of appreciation. Which would not do, at all.

Fingon sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was trying to puzzle out how to make a vegetable and cheese based sausage, but the casing was still going to be a problem. By the way, there is another box of---” Fingon frowned as he suddenly heard knocking on the front door and the sound of the dog warning of a possible visitor. “Were either of you expecting someone? It cannot be Círdan, he was the one who sent the package.”

“No,” came the concurrent answer, just as both of them looked back to Fingon. He was the only one of them without a penis dangling in open view. 

“I suppose I should get the door, then,” said Fingon as more knocking followed. He gave each a quick kiss before he left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Um, perhaps dressing would be in order,” Glorfindel said. “In the event we have a guest. Or guests.”

“True,” Erestor agreed. Momentarily loincloths were located… and in one case, a fresh loincloth…

“Where is my loincloth?” Glorfindel wondered. “It needs to be in the laundry basket as I am fairly certain I ejaculated all over it.”

Erestor bit his lip. “It has to be around here somewhere.”

“Huh.” Glorfindel shrugged, quickly pulled on fresh clothing, and otherwise endeavored to make himself presentable. 

Fingon, now downstairs, opened the door and tried not to look too surprised to see Quennar on the other side. “Good day, Master Archivist,” he said as he gave a slight bow. “Please; come in,” he offered as he stepped aside.

“Thank you, your majesty.” Quennar gave a bow of his own and came into the foyer. He waited until the door was closed before he spoke again. “I hope you will pardon the intrusion; I happened upon the courier on my way to the school, and he informed me that you would not be in today.”

“That was very thoughtful of him,” responded Fingon, though his inner monologue included a few choice words about the courier’s gossiping. “And also so thoughtful that you came to check on my well-being.”

“Shall we drop the formalities and say what is really on our minds?” asked Quennar.

Fingon blinked once. “Please,” he replied.

Quennar folded his hands together. “Perhaps we should sit first.”

After only the slightest hesitation, Fingon motioned to the sitting room. Quennar entered as Fingon said, “Excuse me a moment; I put water on for tea and I do not wish it to boil over. Would you care for a cup?”

Now Quennar paused, shifting uncomfortably. “Thank you. That would be appreciated on this cold morning.”

Fingon nodded and returned to the kitchen, the dog on his heels. He pulled the kettle from the stove and set it aside while he retrieved the cups. “Right now would be a great time for you to let me know that you can talk like Huan could,” he whispered to the dog. “I would have you go up and tell those two not to come down.” The dog only whined in reply. “Figures.” Fingon fixed a tray with two cups of tea, pulled the plain bowl for sugar from the cabinet, and retrieved cream, honey, and a plate of biscuits and some jam. 

The tray was brought back as if it was a polite social call, and Quennar sighed and looked away as Fingon served him the tea. “Now, what did you wish to talk about?” he asked once they were both settled, Fingon much more casually than Quennar.

“Your majesty--”

“Can we please drop the titles?” requested Fingon after a small sip of tea.

Quennar scrutinized Fingon, then gave a slight nod. “When you applied for your position, no one expected you to get it. It was a novelty that you were appointed. There are far more qualified candidates at that school.”

“Such as yourself?” guessed Fingon.

“Besides me,” Quennar said quickly, though it was evident that was his first thought. “Erestor, for one. That he is working for you is almost… rude.”

Fingon lifted a brow.

“And I would appreciate if you do not share what was are speaking of with him,” added Quennar. “I have great respect for him.”

“But none for me?” Fingon drank more tea to shut himself up.

“Your majesty,” Quennar said pointedly, “I have respect for you, but that respect is--”

“Because I killed things. Respect out of fear,” guessed Fingon. Again, Quennar shifted in his seat. “I thought we were speaking freely, Quennar. I certainly shall speak,” he said. “Believe it or not, I have been a librarian longer than Erestor. During the years of the trees, I was the one who trained him how to do this job.”

“And a fine job you did,” complimented Quennar. “His knowledge and wisdom far exceeds that of most people here. He has experiences neither of us did. He worked his way up. He is also one of the Lambengolmor.”

“He did not want the position,” Fingon said firmly before any more of his own shortcomings could be covertly mentioned. “I asked him,” he continued as Quennar began to open his mouth again. “So I guess that comes down to, why did they choose me over you?”

Erestor’s ears pricked all the way from the hallway, sensitive as he was to the patterns and tones of speech. That certainly sounded like… “Fin,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I believe that our guest is Quennar, and I would very much like to know why he is here. No one at work knows about...all of us. Would you mind staying up here and keeping quiet? I want to sneak partway down the stairs and listen.”

“You mean the ellon who was an asshole to Fingon?”

“Something like that, yes,” Erestor confirmed. “I mean, sort of. Ish.”

Glorfindel stared at him, wondering what in hell that was supposed to mean exactly. “Well then, I will fully cooperate, as long as I get details later.” With a peck to Erestor’s cheek, he stealthily returned to the bed. After all, he still had a penis pancake left, and he did not intend to waste it.

Back in the sitting room, Quennar was choosing his words somewhat carefully, judging from the length of his pauses. “The previous headmistress expected you to stay on temporarily. When you took a leave of absence and left Erestor in charge, everyone was quite expecting you would issue a formal resignation. When you returned, it was surprising, but again, everyone thought it would be short-lived.”

“Were you promised the position?” interrupted Fingon. “Wait quietly, watch me fail, and step in to clean up my mess?”

Quennar sputtered a bit. “That was… not really the intent. Not that exact series of events.”

“But you think you could run the library better than I can,” Fingon said as he set his tea aside.

“I think Erestor could run it better than you,” said Quennar. “Yes, I am sorry, but you do not seem to take it very seriously. When he is there, he is focused. When you are there… well, I am honestly not sure quite what you do there,” he said. “Erestor seems to be doing most of the work -- and not one raise since he started!”

Fingon looked taken aback. “How--”

“I happen to know the Wage Master personally,” Quennar said without shame. “He remarked one day that since you began, some of your interns have received three or four increases in their salaries. I was very intrigued, that you were so generous with the funding from the patrons and tuitions, so I inquired as to what you were paying Erestor. It surprised me to know that you have not increased his wages even a single time.”

“You were not trying to get help for your archival project,” Fingon suddenly realized. “You were trying to steal Erestor away from my department. You think I am not treating him fairly.”

“I know you are not! Yes, I want him to work for me. I understand how valuable he is -- you seem not to. Or you do not care. Or perhaps you think if you treat him like this he will just go away.” Quennar lowered his voice. “He is very delicate, you know. You must have heard some of the rumors -- and yet, a brilliant mind. He deserves better,” Quennar said. “I know I said this should stay between us, but intend to tell him this part at least. He should know that he would be appreciated in the archives, and I happen to unexpectedly have a vacant position. I do hope he seriously considers it.”

Fingon stared straight at Quennar, licked his lips, and burst out laughing.

Erestor had heard more than enough, and began slowly, silently creeping down the stairs, holding the bannister to make certain his weight would not cause any tell-tale creaks.

Quennar furrowed his brows. “That seems most uncalled for! Your opinion may not be so high, but I think Erestor is extremely undervalued by you, and I think when I pose the question to him, he may well resign from your department immediately!”

“Should we ask him right now?” 

“Now?” Quennar looked around as if he expected to see Erestor standing in the room. “Does he live around here?”

“Very close by. Very, very close.”

Erestor rolled his eyes, now just outside the doorway, deciding which manner of entrance he wished to make.

“The nearest houses are several acres away,” pointed out Quennar.

“Eres!” Fingon tilted his head back and looked toward the doorway. “I can hear you breathing out there.”

“Not breathing. Yawning,” Erestor said, shuffling sleepily into the room. “Thought I heard my name.” He delicately lowered himself into Fingon’s lap, kissing him full on the mouth and leaving no doubt about his devotion to his lover. “Morning,” he said, snuggling further against him, before raising his head again. “Oh. Oops. Sorry. Good day to you, Quennar. Did not mean to interrupt.”

“Ah. I see.” Quennar had the decency to blush. “Now I understand. Well.” He looked at Erestor. “Good morning. I think I already know the answer, but I must ask regardless -- would you be willing to transfer to the archives? You would have your own office, an increase in wages, and the title of Assistant Archivist.”

Fingon absently stroked Erestor’s hair while keeping his eyes on Quennar. “What do you think, darling? The offer sounds good. I am sure he would let you think about it for a few days if you wanted to mull it over.”

Erestor sat up; the other elf was owed some decent courtesy. “I appreciate your regard, Quennar. I really do. But the information you are missing is… I have done all that, so to speak. I work at the library because Fingon works at the library. If Fingon wanted to shovel shit, I would go shovel shit with him, because I have reached the place where my joy is in being near those who truly love me. It is probably too much to hope that you would afford us the continued discretion of keeping our home and work lives separate, but I would consider that a better means by which to honor me. It is still nice, though, to know that my learning is recognized. I have… tried. And I thank you, sincerely, for the acknowledgement. It is perhaps one of the few times in my life someone has wished to do me a kindness instead of the opposite.”

Quennar let out a little sigh of disappointment. “It was worth a try. Should you change your mind, let me know. As for your arrangement… it was not something I was aware of, and I do not intend to go around sharing that information. Until today, I did not know where either of you lived; the courier only shared with me that Fingon lives here. If you would allow it, I would like to make a case to the headmaster on behalf of both of you. I saw the wage sheets. Neither of you are fairly compensated. You should both be paid more. Even if I do believe your roles should be switched.”

“Why, Quennar, I think that is the nicest criticism I have ever received,” answered Fingon. He moved one hand to touch Erestor’s thigh, perhaps with a little more familiarity than intended with an audience. “What do you think about that, darling?”

Erestor chuckled and shook his head. “I would not say no to more compensation; I have not gone completely mad. But again, there is a reason I did not want Fingon’s position, Quennar. Before I was anything else, I was a farmer. I do not advertise that widely, because unfortunately the word ‘farmer’ calls to mind images of illiterate hayseeds that cannot diagram a sentence. There are times I even use the word ‘grower’ just to try and avoid tiresome negativity. But prejudice does not alter the fact that agronomy and pomology are extensive disciplines in which I find a great deal of satisfaction, despite the opinions of some. My current duties at the library allow me to indulge in my agricultural interests. Working in Fingon’s position would make that impossible. So, I am doing what I truly want to, even if it appears baffling to outside observers.”

“This new knowledge is not helping,” said Quennar. “Half of the collection in the archives is agriculturally based, and we keep experimenting based on what we find. Right now we are growing mushrooms in one of the supply closets using Fëanorian gems as a light source.” He cut himself off. “We can probably keep that between us.”

Erestor quirked an eyebrow and shook his head. “Good luck with that. We have an old farmer’s saying: ‘If it is not broken, do not fix it’. And yet, sometimes it is a path to discovery. I prefer to utilize the methods with which I have had proven success.”

“I hate to be an inconsiderate host, but--”

“This is your day off,” finished Quennar as he stood. “Thank you for the tea. I am disappointed with your decision, Master Erestor, but if you should have any recommendations for the open position, I would be very receptive to your advice. I hope you have a pleasant day,” he added as Fingon carefully nudged Erestor to stand so that he could as well.

“I will reflect on what you have asked,” Erestor promised. “And I thank you again for your regard and your offer.” He took Fingon’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

After Quennar was out of the house and the door was shut and locked, Fingon leaned his head forward, pressed against the door. “Sooo… when do you think we should tell him about Glorfindel?” he asked, still appearing to be one with the door.

“I am not so concerned about that,” Erestor said as he gently turned Fingon around and reached with his fingers to touch Fingon’s cheeks. “All I care about is you, and Fin, and that I feel loved. And I want so much to kiss you.” Tilting his head, he captured Fingon’s lips in a kiss that was anything but sexual. There was reverence, and gratitude, and deepest appreciation. “Because I love you.”

Glorfindel, who had finished his breakfast and was hiding near the top of the steps, now came down the rest of the way. As Fingon and Erestor parted, Glorfindel was beckoned forward by both of them. They shared a few moments together at the doorway, until Glorfindel broke the silence with, “I heard something about a raise and an office, but I will need to be filled in on the rest.”

“Speaking of that,” Erestor said as he ran his fingers through Fingon’s hair, “it sounds like Quennar is taking care of my raise, which means that leaves you free to figure out where my new office is going to be.”

“Your… what?” Fingon looked to Glorfindel for assistance, but Glorfindel only shrugged.

“Quennar was ready to give me a raise, a title, and an office. Surely you have the power to make one of those happen,” teased Erestor.

“Sure. I can give you the title of the most adorable librarian ever, bestowed upon you by the best gymnast ever,” Fingon attempted. He was rewarded with a withering look from Erestor.

“Maybe you could share the office Fingon has,” Glorfindel suggested. “It seems rather large for just one person, and if you are supposed to be his assistant--”

“Technically,” interrupted Fingon, “my assistant is--”

“Perfect -- I will take it,” declared Erestor before they could get off topic. “Now I am going to need a new desk… and a better chair, one with armrests...”

“Did I just lose my office?” Fingon tried to clarify.

“No, silly,” corrected Erestor. “You just gained an officemate.”

“One who will occasionally close the door to sneak kisses and give you back rubs,” pointed out Glorfindel. Recalling their years in Rivendell, Glorfindel added, “He may also hide under your desk at inopportune moments from time to time.”

“Why would--”

“Also, he bites,” warned Glorfindel.

Fingon’s mouth was open, but nothing came out. He turned to Erestor for the explanation.

“He kicked me first, and his feet smelled odd,” defended Erestor. 

“Maybe I should just give you the office,” Fingon suggested. Erestor pouted. “On the other hand, surprise backrubs do sound nice.”

“I wonder if we could fit another chair in there. For Fin, when he comes to visit,” explained Erestor. 

“As much as I would like that, it would seem highly suspect,” answered Glorfindel.

Erestor nodded. “It would be nice to find a way to make it not highly suspect. Say, I heard there is a position open at the school… you would not have an interested in being an archivist, would you?”

“Absolutely not,” Glorfindel quickly countered. “Someday, perhaps we can find a way to spend most of our time together. Right now, though, the king would like to show his appreciation to the cook for the splendid meal provided this morn.”

“Twas nothing, your majesty,” said Fingon, but Glorfindel had already found a way to get behind him.

“I was thinking… surprise backrub,” Glorfindel said as he gently kneaded the muscles in Fingon’s shoulders.

Indeed, the sudden appearance of Quennar at the house had brought on some unexpected stress, and Fingon slumped just slightly, just enough to give Glorfindel an easier time of it. “If you insist, sire,” he replied, and the trio journeyed back upstairs to spend the day in their ‘home office’ together.

“I do insist,” Glorfindel told him. “I will also insist that you kneel before me.” He let his words linger just a moment, for effect. He was not displeased as Fingon shivered slightly, and Erestor, beside him, smiled with a little chuckle. “On a soft cushion, so that I can tend to your shoulders better than if you stood or sat in a chair.” A grin broke out on his face. “You are right. It is good to be king-- for a day.”


	6. Think of Yesterday (Epilogue)

_Six months later…_

“Ooo!” Glorfindel was sitting at the kitchen table looking through one of the old cookbooks he found in their home library. “This looks really good… Erestor, do we have chives available out there?” he called out.

Erestor, who had been in the adjoining room which now held his growing seed library, wandered back to the kitchen. “Not out there,” he said as he motioned through the window, “but thanks to your marvelous greenhouse, you can have all the chives you want.”

Glorfindel smiled at the praise. “Our greenhouse,” he corrected. Built to connect to the old butchering room turned seed sanctuary, Glorfindel managed to tap into the heat of their hot spring to keep the greenhouse warm and slightly humid year round. It provided not only a way to keep growing even in the cold months, but was allowing Erestor the ability to experiment with some plants which otherwise were not known to tolerate the climate of the island. The temperature of the room also allowed them a sort of sauna area, and one corner was reserved for a variety of leafy greenery and a comfortable area for sitting, lounging, and even more when they felt the desire. “What about mushrooms?”

“I will have to check the basement, but I suspect we have those as well,” said Erestor as he sat down beside Glorfindel and peered down at the page. He absently played with Glorfindel’s hair, which was now long enough that it was pulled back into a ponytail. “We have… that… and that… and those… but… that we need,” he said as he tapped one of the ingredients on the list.

“Do you think Káno might be able to pick that up on his way home today?” asked Glorfindel. “I know it is not in season, but perhaps someone has some at the market. I only need that for garnish.”

“Ah… I thought he left already.” Erestor looked around for any sign that Fingon might still be on the property, and saw his satchel hanging off a chair. 

Glorfindel confirmed this. “He said he was going to check the mailbox and then be on his way. Now that you mention it, that was a while ago…”

The pair abandoned the cookbook and went to the front door, with the dog suddenly following after them. At the mailbox, they could see Fingon, leaning against the post, a package under his arm, a letter in his hands, shoulders shaking.

“I hope that is laughter and not disappointment,” fretted Glorfindel as he and Erestor hurried out to their companion. Fingon glanced up, cheeks red, but smiling, which slowed the steps of the others slightly. Once at the mailbox with him, Glorfindel put an arm around Fingon. “We were starting to worry about you.”

“Sorry,” apologized Fingon. “My brother responded to my soup recipe.” He held out the letter. “As you can see, he did try the recipe, but it failed. The hat caught fire and now he is out a hat and I am out my justice. However, he has made up for it with a token of… I think acceptance is the best word to use for it.”

Erestor took the letter and read it out loud for the benefit of Glorfindel as well. “Dear brother. Thank you ever so much for your precise remembrance of our past conversations, and for this lovely homemade recipe. Regrettably, due to personal error on the part of each of us, the recipe did not list water as a component nor did I think to add any on general principle of soup makery. Therefore, the hat is an ex-hat, having at first singed and then caught fire within the pot. As I offered the eating of that hat, and no other, and as it is quite literally impossible to do so now (not only due to the culinary disaster, but also because my wife said no -- she wishes words with you when you are next here), I offer instead this small token, which I hope will make up for my inability to eat my hat. With great respect and much love, Turukáno.”

During this time, Fingon was busy opening the accompanying package with great care. There were several layers, and halfway, a note that slipped out that read ‘almost there’. “We used to do this to annoy Aredhel,” explained Fingon as the other two patiently waited. “We would wrap something small in as many layers as we could, because it just frustrated her to no end.”

“Traditions are good,” joked Erestor as the last layer was removed and a white cloth was removed. “Blanket? Tablecloth?”

“Banner,” recognized Fingon. He let it drape down in a manner that he saw what was embroidered on it first, and immediately became misty-eyed. “I can tell he did all the work himself. He has a certain way of making the stitches.” 

Fingon turned the banner around and held it up so that Erestor and Glorfindel could see the emblem upon it.

“Oh!” Glorfindel said, his eyes wide and staring at the image. “Oh, I…” nothing else emerged, while his eyes began to shimmer with unshed tears. He had not looked on or considered the emblem of his old house for a very long time, and to see it rendered thus...from Turgon of all people…

Erestor also stared, as his agile mind worked out the layers of symbolism on the fabric before him. Uncharacteristically, he said nothing, but immediately reached for Fingon to kiss him deeply. This was not merely a banner--this was acceptance, and belonging, and acknowledgement from someone who had once been prominent in the suppression of his deepest wants. Glorfindel heard, as Erestor’s thoughts bled out for anyone to hear, and he joined in their embrace.

“I mean… he can still be a jerk sometimes, but…” Fingon trailed off to wipe the corners of his eyes. “Maybe we could hang it up in the sitting room. Somewhere we can see it often. If that would be acceptable.”

“Yes,” Erestor and Glorfindel answered together. Glorfindel took a moment to respond with slightly less overt emotion than Erestor, planting a chaste but firm kiss on Fingon’s cheek and wishing that they could just all stay home and snuggle except for-- “Wait,” Glorfindel sniffled. “We came to look for Fingon because we wanted a--dammit, what did we want, Ress? This beautiful gift made me forget what I was even doing.”

“Something to go with chives and potatoes and whatever else was in that recipe,” Erestor managed to recall. “We were going to have you pick up… something from the market for dinner tonight.”

“A particular something?” Fingon gently prodded, and Erestor nodded. “I… I kind of have another idea in mind, if I might be so bold?” Fingon cleared his throat as he reverently folded the banner and placed it in Glorfindel’s care. “I was thinking, those little crackers the two of you made a while back, around the time I wrote the recipe for hat soup, along with some of that medlar cheese if we still have any. Cucumber sandwiches, I saw there were some promising ones in the greenhouse, and I will find something fun at the market to bring home for dessert.”

For several seconds, the silly grin on Erestor’s face seemed worthy of a young elf in the first throes of romantic love. Then he returned to a more ordinary demeanor, cleared his throat, and finally spoke his answer: “That sounds lovely. Even though I will already have my dessert, just because you came home.”

Glorfindel smiled and patted Erestor on the bottom. It might not help accomplish any recipe preparation, but it seemed like the thing to do at the moment. He felt encouraged, when he was not rebuked.

“Well, then, beautiful, I will leave the two of you to your culinary adventure for the day, and promise not to dally overlong at work.” Fingon nuzzled at each of his lovers as he walked them back to the house and retrieved his satchel. He kissed them both, said his farewells, and decided today was a day to take one of the horses instead of walking. Riding would give him a chance to make it to the market before work, where hopefully he could find someone to make a peach cheesecake for him to retrieve on his way home. It was not quite Turgon eating his hat, he thought as he trotted off down the road, but the day was promising to be much better than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take it as a random happenstance, take it as a sign - just as I was transferring this epilogue over to post it, I heard the sound of church music and looked up. I have MTV Classic on a lot while I write because I like the music, but I like to have motion, too, when writing. 
> 
> And the sound I heard was the intro for the song that inspired the title for this story. A title chosen after many, many, MANY titles were toyed with and rejected. A song from which all of the chapter titles are derived. 
> 
> This is the point where I share that I was hit harder by the passing of George Michael than I have been in the case of just about any other well-known person. If asked previously, I doubt I would have said he was in my top ten musicians to listen to, or even have really thought he was that influential to me personally, but as it turns out, he was a very covert muse I only realized was there after he was gone. 
> 
> Thanks, George. 
> 
> And thank you, dear readers, for making it to the end of this part of the journey with us. As always, there is more to come... until next time, darlings, until next time.
> 
> -Zhie


End file.
